


Get Out Of My Town

by smileyfacegauges



Category: Silent Hill, Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill 2 - Fandom, Silent Hill 3 - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Gore, Child Death, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Horror, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infant Death, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nausea, Older Man/Younger Man, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Series, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND SUPPORT, Violence, Vomiting, i keep having to edit tags as i go along lmao, i very much love respect and appreciate you, if anyone has suggestions pls let me know, that was a very long wait, y'all are complete ballers and angels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2020-11-22 20:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 133,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20880251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileyfacegauges/pseuds/smileyfacegauges
Summary: Silent Hill summons the family home. The Resident wants them out.





	1. Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my close friend Renae for taking the time and directing her keen eye and refreshing insight into helping me edit and better this behemoth. i'm grateful for her help and attention and her outstanding patience. i'm very lucky to have a friend like her.
> 
> another heartfelt thank you to my readers, new and returning. it means the world to me that you may, or have, enjoyed the story so far. i'm humbled and thankful for the support.
> 
> onward and upward into the fog!

Harry was back in the town he’d swore he’d never lay eyes on again, and saw in his fitful nightmares.

It hadn’t changed much, he thought. The fog was still so thick that it was hard to hear anything other than his own breathing. It muffled the entire atmosphere. The scrapes and grunts that came from beyond the veil kept his brain in a guessing game with itself; was it just his imagination, or were those noises real? 

He walked the broken white line in the middle of the road. In his hand he clutched a rusted pipe - a weapon that seemed to be dutifully waiting for him after all these years, sitting on a bench that greeted him upon entry to the town. Silent Hill was alive and conscious, as it always had been, as he hated to think about. There was a static in the air that felt excited. The hair on the back of his neck stood to a strange humid warmth in the midst of all this, well, mist. Harry could sense the jittery eagerness of the unknown and ungodly that wanted to welcome him back into the tragic, deadly fold that was Silent Hill.

Of course, he was here for the only reason he endured its hell in the first place. He sighed, looking into the boarded up shop windows and peeling signs as he passed them. His poor girl. This town was obsessed with her. He would give his life over and over for the rest of eternity for her to be left alone and live a normal, healthy life. 

Instead, Silent Hill repeatedly tried to wedge its way back into their lives and steal her away again. The reason he was here meant that it may have succeeded and he would, again, collect his daughter and take her home. 

Harry thought about Silent Hill more often than he liked. He remembered its streets, the school, the hospital, the basements and the houses. He recognized the other side of some of these streets as he walked them, but soon found himself in an area he was unfamiliar with.

Curiosity piqued and senses alert, he cautiously wandered the new section of town. Strangely, and reeking with dangerous foreboding, he had not yet encountered a monster. He heard them in the fog, and saw nothing. 

As a veteran of Silent Hill, this did not sit well with him.

The asphalt gave way to cobblestone as he approached a park. A park! The hedges were neatly groomed and the grass seemed maintained. Harry would have appreciated it if he were anywhere else, perhaps, since here it just rang wrong. He curiously followed the path, and as a wide walk bordered by chipped railing came into his view, he realized he’d found the lake.

Harry approached the railing and peered over into the water. There was nothing to see under the mist. He looked right - past an abandoned hot dog cart - and then left. He was about to turn back when his brain caught up to what he saw out of the corner of his eye (a figure, a dark and horrible hulking figure, just behind him within view, ready to jump him), and Harry quickly swung around.

His heart was thudding in his throat when he found that the monstrosity he thought he saw was in fact just a man. Just a man, sitting on a bench, staring into the fog as though he wore blinders. He didn’t see Harry, and he didn’t seem to even see what he was looking at. He sat there, very still, and very pale.

Harry was an empathetic man. Finding another person stranded in Silent Hill was simultaneously relieving and worrying. He didn’t want to think about what happened to the other people he’d met here. They always reminded him when he closed his eyes. 

With his pipe held low and as unthreatening as he could, he slowly approached the lost soul on the bench. The man was so pale and his face was so forlorn. His dirty blond hair was styled fashionably for 1999, and he wore a dark green jacket that looked military, while its owner did not fit the type.

He tried to edge slowly into the man’s line of sight. “Hello?” he said gently, getting closer. “Hello, I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you were okay.” 

He frowned, seeing that he wasn’t yet making an impression on this faraway fellow. Harry gripped the pipe firmly, just in case he was to be duped, and leaned down to try to meet this man’s vacant eyes.

That’s when the foggy green irises lifted and Harry was engulfed in a wave so heavy with sadness that he nearly rocked on his heels. His brows knit in concern, and he braced his hand on his knee.

“Hey. You okay buddy?” No response. He looked like he was trying to process what Harry was, much less what he was saying. “My name’s Harry Mason,” he continued, hoping to prompt a similar reply.

“Hi.”

Oh, good. He was cognitive. Harry smiled, and opened his mouth to greet him for a third time, when he was cut off. “Are you a tourist?”

“No, uh, not exactly,” Harry replied, laughing. “I’m looking for someone, actually. But I’ve been here before - uh, the town. I’ve been to the town, though this is a part I’ve never seen before,” he said awkwardly, then looking out to the lake. “It’s a nice view, though. Shame about the weather, huh?”

When he looked at him again, he was held in a curious stare by eyes that were soaked in defeat. Harry felt a pang of guilt for a reason he couldn’t explain, and again tried to smile at the nameless patron. He was given no kind mirroring. The attempt at friendliness began to fade, and his eyes dropped to the ground. 

Harry wasn’t being given much to work with. As much as he would have liked to help he was in a rush to find Heather, but he felt torn. He couldn’t just leave this guy here without having some idea that he was going to be okay. He appeared to be totally lost to the winds and that worried him; he would feel horrible if something happened and he’d turned his back. Harry tried to smile again. 

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Who are you looking for?”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. The guy was waking up. “My daughter. Her name’s Heather. She’s about, oh, this tall,” he demonstrated with a wave of his hand, “and she has short blonde hair. She’s seventeen. She’s a real sweet girl, handling being a teenager with effortless grace.”

The sarcasm didn’t go unappreciated, and Harry was pleased to see that the wretched man could smile. It brought a wide grin to Harry’s. “I haven’t seen her,” he was told. “I’m sorry. A lot of people go missing here.”

“Yeah,” Harry sympathetically agreed. “This place isn’t like any normal town.”

“That’s for sure.”

Harry watched his eyes return to the lake. He straightened his posture and winced; he wasn’t getting any younger, and he was really regretting putting off that massage appointment that he won at an art faire raffle. He swung his pipe arm and stuffed the other hand into his jacket pocket. 

He studied this odd young man. He didn’t look much older than 27. The entirety of him was haunted and exhausted. It’s possible he was a native of Silent Hill. 

It made Harry sad to think about her. He still remembers that she was probably the last good thing about the town before it went to complete shit. She was young too. Though it was only two he’d met so far suffering seemingly the same fate, it really felt like too many people. Too many people were being eaten from the heart outward in this shithole. That poor girl.

Poor, sad Lisa.

Harry twisted, and looked down at the stranger. “Well, I’m going to have to get going. You be careful out there, okay, uh..? What was your name?”

Their eyes met again. “James. James Sunderland.”

“James. Be careful, okay? I hope I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll keep an eye out for your daughter. She sounds nice.”

“Thanks. She means the world to me,” Harry said, offering a final smile as he began to retrace his steps. “I just want to get her home safe.”

James nodded. “I think that’s what any of us would want.”

Harry didn’t really know how to respond to that. He lifted his hand to wave, and received one in kind, and so he turned away. Behind him, James had turned his attention back to the lake.

How sad that young, blonde women were often lost here. The town ate them up like Easter candy. It was cruel and unfair, and James had been through this dialogue over and over so many times that he let it run in his head like an episode of a sitcom at midnight.

Behind all that noise, something else was itching in the crevices of his head. That man was important. _Very_ important. The town was as excited to see him as much as it hated him. The fog thrummed with malicious energy. Silent Hill wanted to simultaneously swallow Harry whole and forcibly eject him. James could feel it all. He couldn’t know why it felt this way about Harry Mason. It was just so strong that he nearly felt vertigo when he stood up.

James began to walk in the opposite direction of where Harry departed. He was going to help him find his little girl. He didn’t like the way that Silent Hill changed when Harry arrived. He’d felt the shift immediately, and now understood what had caused it. He had to get him, and his daughter, out of this town.

Unfortunately for him, Heather hadn’t arrived yet.

But they didn’t need to know that.


	2. Don't Worry About It

When Harry stepped out of Rosewater Park onto Nathan Avenue, he felt relief. There was quite a delay of emotional consciousness in him that he would come to realize was going to be a common occurrence in his stay here. A depressing weight had been looming over his head from the moment he encountered James, and now it had lifted away like a net of balloons. He took a deep breath and shook himself off.

He stepped off the curb and only then, too, realized he was in unfamiliar territory. When he was first in Silent Hill, the businesses and streets were different. He looked up at the corner and, knowing full well he wouldn’t immediately recognize any of the street names, felt that he was a totally different part of the town. There was an inn across from him, and this main road stretched far to his left and right.

He’d come from the corner down the road, so he took the street directly in front of him. As he approached a block of apartments, he was haunted by the civilian in the park.

Why was it that there were normal people walking around in this abandoned town? He remembered Lisa, and Kaufmann, and Cybil. He wished he didn’t remember Dhalia, but her face and her voice scarred his nightmares. It just never sat well with him. On one hand it had been a comfort that there were survivors - is that even a respectful way to put it? - in this hellscape. On the other hand it didn’t seem right. They felt like marionettes placed there to perform a specific dance for him. He’d questioned whether or not that they were actual, real people that had existed. 

Cybil was a real person. He solidly knew that and took respite in it. She kept in contact with Harry for half a year post-Silent Hill, then she ceased communication. It worried him at the time, and still he thought of her. It almost like abandonment when he never heard from her again, left alone in the fog of trauma. He understood it. Harry guessed that she wanted to wash her hands of the whole matter and cut off for her own sanity. How could he blame her? He didn’t. He wished her well. If Cybil could repair her life and walk as free as she could from the tragedies she experienced, he hoped that she’d succeed.

Harry found that the wire fence skirting the building had a door. It was unlocked and ajar, and he swung it open with a nudge of the pipe. The brick didn’t display any sort of name, and as threatening as the dark of it was, he was compelled to enter.

The lobby door creaked and hissed closed. On the bulletin board he discovered this was the Blue Creek Apartments. If there was a map of the building, it was missing. The diagonal wooden tiles were scuffed and gritty under his feet, and the railed metal staircase sounded hollow when he climbed it.

Harry pushed open the door to the first floor row of apartments. Naturally, it was nearly pitch black, and he didn’t have a flashlight. In his haste to get to Silent Hill he packed nothing, perhaps by the will of the town’s impossible reach. Last time he’d found a flashlight, so eventually, he’d likely pick one up somewhere.

He also realized he didn’t have a radio. If there were monsters lurking, he’d have no idea. So far there was a terrible lack of them. The silence, other than his own noise, was suffocating. It practically rang in his ears and also filled them with cotton balls. Thanks to Silent Hill, radio static was a trigger for him now, and yet the thought of its absence struck icicles through his heart. He needed that awful racket. Without it, Harry’s anxiety suddenly shot through the roof. He took a few rattling breaths to try to bring himself down and realign his current focus. It worked.

The stained hallway yawned forever, and boxed him in tight. There seemed to be space enough for only one and a half people, the type of hallway where residents would need to slip by each other sideways. The thin carpet squished when he tread. It had the consistency of water damage, like there was a minor case of flooding. He wouldn’t ponder the mystery of it. Harry, with the shadow of trepidation hulking over his shoulder, began to try cold knobs on each of the doors.

As he encountered locked room after locked room, his thoughts traveled back to the mystery of civilians. Harry automatically supposed that James was one of those town natives that was trapped in the sore side of Silent Hill. He felt sorry for the man. He’d looked so lost and defeated. Maybe he wasn’t a resident. James appeared as though he had accepted his fate and sat down on that bench to drown in time. 

It was weird. Now, after the fact, Harry couldn’t quite shake the depressing aura that permeated from that young man. He frowned as he thought about it. James shouldn’t be here; nobody should. There was just something terribly off about him. If Silent Hill was indeed a puppeteer, why would it put James in his path? Why did he meet him? Why didn’t Harry stay longer to talk to him, or offer more help, or, more importantly, feel the urgency of finding his daughter?

That was something that was chilled him the most. Heather was missing in Silent Hill again, and was desperate to find her, scared for her life, and yet he was taking his time searching for her. There was a frightening lack of urgency. 

Why? After all he knew, _why?_ What kind of a father was he? His baby girl, reborn from a heinous god, who he protected and loved so fiercely and did everything in his mortal power to keep her away from here, was missing. Harry was beside himself, prematurely grieving, twisted with anxious need to find her safe and bring her home once more, and yet.. _why_ did he feel so casual about it?

It was alarmingly heartless of him.

His heart sank and worried itself into a tangle of knots when one of the doors yielded. Relieved, he stepped into the room, and something that instantly spooked him cold. 

In the darkness of the room, there was a dressmaker’s cloth mannequin. It stood in the exact middle of the floor, presenting itself to him in uncomfortably pristine condition. It seemed to illuminate the room despite there being no other light, standing out amongst the shadows. It belonged there. It was like a museum display, something that held significance; look, contemplate, and don’t touch. 

Harry felt that he was meant to see it. Its presence meant nothing to him, confused him really, but he knew it wanted him to see it. Seconds crawled on as he beheld it, and then he recoiled in its existence. Now the mannequin was upset. Harry had gotten his look and now he had to get out and leave it alone. How dare he walk in on it so boldly! How dare he stare at it for so long, like some kind of deviant creep! He had the distinct thought that it was pushing him away, forcing him out of the room, and he dropped his eyes to the floor. Shame and embarrassment hung his head as he began to close the door.

Then he snuck one more glance at it. The mannequin looked so lonely in that room. It was pitiful. It was apologetic. Perhaps it acted too brashly. Harry doesn’t have to go! Please, stay. Keep it company for a little while longer.

But Harry couldn’t stand the heaviness of his shame. He took his eyes to the floor and slowly closed the door to the pleading of an inanimate object.

When the lock clicked behind him, Harry stared down at the flooded carpet. The sobs that he heard inside his head trailed off, and ceased completely. 

He wouldn’t be able to open that door again. He didn’t have to, or want to, to know what was now in that room.

Harry slowly continued his journey down the hall. There was a haze that he was swimming in now, unfeeling and absent. 

In that room, where it didn’t belong, where it was misplaced, the mannequin succumbed to decay.


	3. Can I Get Directions?

The apartment building yielded him no answers. The air remained cold and pungent with wet mold, the floors soggy no matter which floor he reached, and the walls were stained and dripping with leaks. In the rooms that did allow him in, he found decay and filth; kitchens that were biohazards, living rooms of caked dust and dirt clinging to the poor mockery of hardwood, bedrooms that were lonely and haunting, and bathrooms that.. yuck. 

Harry had seen a lot in his prior visit to Silent Hill and already in his new tour. He was accustomed to seeing some disgusting things. But the bathrooms.. the _bathrooms_. The toilets were greasy and the bowls were slicked with thick and watery substances alike that he really, really didn’t want to try to identify. The mirrors were foggy and smeared with someone’s attempt at cleaning. They’d missed the mark by ten miles, and Harry didn’t think he’d want to see a clear reflection anyway. The linoleum beneath his feet were peeling and creaky, and felt gritty with every step.

The showers gave the impression that someone had a duel with a rogue razor during a routine shaving, while sampling leftover barbecue, and dancing the macarena. Harry had to put some kind of humorous spin on the depraved sight, else he add to the sick in the toilet.

God, the toilets. He couldn’t look at it for more than a couple seconds before his stomach folded and swashed the acid around. In every single bathroom there was a stench with the overtone of bodily fluids and the sickly sweet fade of air freshener. The scent was in the background of it, hanging on like a memory, raising uncomfortable awareness in Harry’s mind.

The whole scene, odor and all, reminded him of the stomach flu. Someone who was sick, who kept running to the bathroom to expunge themselves, and then accepted their fate and camped out until the worst was over. The saccharine spritz was a courageous crack at hiding it all to make it more bearable to housemates. It was gross, and Harry knew it all too well.

Something nagged at him. The scenario felt awkward. Mortifying. Like the mannequin on the first floor, he felt like he was seeing something that was only making someone else feel worse. Every bathroom held this effect and he was not enjoying it in the least. Every sick, dirt, smear, and splatter was an embarrassment. He felt like he had to clean it up. He also felt like he would be attacked if he did.

The apartments were draining. Harry walked all five floors and found nothing he needed. Every now and then he heard a groan or a hiss, some guttural chatter that sounded inquisitive and threatening. All these noises were safely locked behind doors. To Harry, that seemed even worse. It felt foreboding; the monsters were caged and simply waiting to be released when the town deemed their time.

He wasn’t looking forward to meeting them.

Harry returned to the street. He was without a flashlight and without a radio. He felt drained. His eyes were heavy and burning with sleep deprivation, and he knew that there was no reason for it. Whatever Silent Hill was doing it was having just a ball doing it. Harry began to let it sink in that the town had transformed since he was there. The change was drastic and overbearing; it left the weight of peeled eyes staring at him from the fog and a tingle prickling his neck. He hated it. He felt weary and invaded. 

Running his hand through his hair, he sighed and continued down Munson St. The intersection gave him the only option of Katz St., so he turned left and ventured down the middle of the road. He approached another apartment building, and his heart sank with the idea that he’d likely have to explore that one, too. Harry was looking up at it as he walked, and at the last moment he took his eyes to the road and stopped, rearing back in surprise.

Upon the asphalt lay an enormous, gleaming red sigil. Its glow lit up his shoes, and nearly reached his hands. There were runes trapped in circles, an eye staring unblinking into the sky, a squared symbol in the middle flanked by three smaller circles. Larger, important-looking runes lay in the spaces that the smaller circles left. It was holy and unholy all at once. It deserved reverence and fear. It was a symbol that both protected, and warned.

Harry felt no familiarity towards it. It spooked him. Its inviting, sinister gleam kept him away from inspecting it closer. Harry took a few hurried steps backward, and, watching it nervously, decided to take the sidewalk.

It was still there when he looked over his shoulder again. The apartments were to be left untouched for now. The sigil’s appearance made Harry feel like he wasn’t supposed to go in there yet, and oh, how he didn’t like that. He walked away with a shudder in his chest, creeped out by the outstanding control the town had.

This was bad. This was worse than he was prepared for. Harry swung his gaze from side to side, looking for any clue, any hope, any reason why Silent Hill was the way it was now. He felt so cold and clammy, sweat clinging his shirt to his back and the pipe slippery in his fist. He couldn’t decide whether or not to remove his jacket, as he was hot and cold as though he had the flu, and really, he had no choice but to keep it on. Harry couldn’t be bogged down with carrying more than one thing. 

He was distressed. His mind turned to the civilian in the park. If he could find him - James, was it? - maybe he could help him get some answers. He really needed to get some goddamn answers.

Harry was back at Neely St. Standing in the middle of the intersection, he saw the Lucky Jade Restaurant, the Grand Market, and Big Jay’s. Businesses of all sorts lined Neely St. as far as his eye could see (through the fog) and many were boarded up. He turned slowly in place, and walked away from the lakeside to see what the street had in store for him.

That exact thought made him chuckle. A street packed with businesses, had to see what was in store for him? Oh, he was a funny guy. Heather would have (not) appreciated it. Harry’s smile faded. Heather. _It’s okay, baby girl. He’s coming for her._

As luck would have it, there was a door that was ajar. Harry jogged right to it and struggled momentarily with the stiff, bloated door on the sidewalk. He got it open with a good scrape, and heaved a sigh from the effort as he peeked in.

He was in a cafe. Neighborhood Cafe, to be precise. It hit him with the worst kind of nostalgia; he was thrown back to the moment he awoke in the diner on the red vinyl bench. As he forced the door closed behind him, he took in the layout. 

There was a counter ahead with a register and empty pastry glass. The menu was missing most of its letters, and the coffee machines were never going to be in any working condition again. Chairs were sparse, tables were pushed into corners. Adjacent to the main lobby, however, was another room. 

Harry followed the tiles to hardwood and threadbare rugs. It was darker in here, and understandably: the windows here were boarded, and not simply dirty. He ventured carefully in, and stood in the middle, tapping the pipe contemplatively against his leg.

Without a flashlight, he really was at a disadvantage. Again. That was really starting to grate on his nerves. No clues, no flashlight, no monsters - what was this goddamn town playing at? Harry took careful steps towards the back of the room, squinting to try to see through the dark, when he heard the shuffle of clothes and feet scraping the floor far behind him.

His heart leapt to the top of his throat and he spun around, throwing up the pipe for immediate defense. As soon as he faced the opposite direction he was met with blaring white light that immediately blinded him. 

Harry cowered and protected his eyes behind his arm, though the temporary damage was already done. He couldn’t see, and he wouldn’t be able to while that powerful shine was on him. He was vulnerable, helpless, and scared out of his wits. He needed to be brave and found he was grasping at straws, overwhelmed with the fear that he was going to fail too soon, his death was at his fingertips, and Heather, poor Heather, he’s so sorry! He’s so sorry, he’s so sorry!

As he gritted his teeth and waited for whatever blow was about to devastate him, all he could think about was his little girl, and the dreadful sinking weight of his failure.


	4. Coffee Talk

“Oh. Harry. It’s you.”

The beam dropped to a spotlight on the floor. Slowly, Harry lowered his arms and squinted, disoriented and vision burned with white, into the cafe. The flashlight dimly reflected back on its handler, and Harry could make out simple definitions of the very civilian he had been wondering about.

He exhaled sharply and swung the pipe loosely at his side. His heart was thudding a mile a minute and he took two more deliberate breaths to encourage it back to relaxation. Then he rubbed the back of his hand into his eye to try to get out the spotting from the violent assault with the flashlight. “Jesus Christ, James,” he grumbled. “You scared me half to death. How long were you going to wait to say something?”

“Sorry,” came the embarrassed apology. “I was asleep.”

“You were _asleep?_” Harry clarified incredulously, looking up. James remained seated behind the table, and only got to his feet when Harry began to make his approach. Harry stopped where he was, and for the first time was able to get a full impression of Silent Hill’s ward.

James turned his flashlight to point at the ceiling. He held a compact device meant to be pinned. With the light shining into the stucco sky, it showered the immediate vicinity with a strong enough light to see most of the room. It also meant both of them could see eye to eye. Though they had a brief time to do their first impression studies in the park, now they could get a more comprehensive look at each other. 

Their meeting at Rosewater Park felt like such a long time ago, anyway.

To Harry, James nearly reached his height. He wagered James stood an inch or two beneath him. He looked about average build, but the jacket seemed a little big and his jeans appeared to hang looser in the legs. The boots on his feet looked dark and stained, or maybe they were wet. He didn’t recognize any of the patches save for the all-American flag sewn on the pocket, and besides all that, his wardrobe was truly unremarkable. James dressed like he’d either been in a hurry, or simply threw on whatever was in arm’s reach.

Or maybe this was the look of a man who didn’t care. Harry frowned gently into the pale face that was ordinary at best and averagely-handsome-on-the-verge-of-averagely-pretty in the right light. He saw his face better now that they were directly in front of each other, and the overhead light that James made cast hollow shadows on his sad, tired self.

James was the most depressing man he’d ever met. It was crushing to look into his eyes. They were distant and foggy, as though he were in a waking dream. He felt regarded by him in the same way that told another person that he was zoning out; he didn’t feel seen. These eyes were dead and set in a shell of a man. He recalled them being green but in this meager light, they looked like muddy sewer water.

Looking at him again, wardrobe was definitely on a mid-to-lower-tier effort of looking functional. He could pass as normal, if not a little troubled, if no one considered him for very long. He was eye-catching for his hair and perhaps could turn someone’s head, but Harry saw an unremarkable face. As he’d thought before, James was average. He’d suit a person looking for traditional expectations and an average life. They’d get married in a modest ceremony, probably at a church and reception in someone’s family’s back yard. They’d live together in their plain one bedroom apartment until they saved enough to purchase their own house. Then they’d move in, to a street that was dotted with houses of various sizes, but all were the same in that they were were boring, unoriginal, and would be fondly called ‘safe and sound’ by older people chatting in the supermarket. And they’d be perfectly happy with that.

The longer he stared into James’s face, the more drained he began to feel. James oozed a pathetic sadness that made him want to spend as little time as possible around him. He should have been feeling relieved to see him, but James was an uncomfortable person and Harry didn’t know yet if he wanted to endure that any longer than ten minutes tops at a time.

Harry offered him a strange, uneasy smile. 

James offered him nothing in return.

“Yeah. I figured this was a safe place to take a quick nap. It’s dangerous out there.”

If he had met Harry when he first arrived in Silent Hill, he would have been worlds happier to see him. He would have been more congenial, even show more emotion. It would have been easier to bond with him over being on the same mission to find their missing persons. 

That would have been pretty nice.

Harry drew his lips together and looked towards the lobby. “Yeah, so you know about all that, too?”

“Yeah. It’s hard not to.”

What a riveting conversationalist James was turning out to be. Harry stuffed a hand into his pocket and glanced at him. “It seems kinda quiet out there.”

James’s shoulders lifted a fraction to shrug, and he too took a gander towards the main entrance. What Harry said seemed to catch up with him then, and he turned a muddled frown back to him. “Wait, what?”

“Hm?” Now both men were frowning at each other, confused and wary. 

“What do you mean, ‘so you know about that too’?”

Harry took the defense. “Well, what did you mean by ‘it’s dangerous out there’?”

“There are monsters out there,” James told him firmly. “This is not a normal town.”

“I know. We’ve been over this. Kind of.” Harry sighed as James clearly struggled to connect the dots. “We met before in the park.”

“Yeah. I remember that. You’re looking for your daughter.”

“Right, and you said that this wasn’t a normal town, and I agreed.”

There was a pause. “Okay. But how did you know that there were monsters out there?”

Harry stared at him. He collected that James wasn’t playing with a full deck, but now he suspected that even the dealer was out on a smoke break. “I’ve been here before. I know there are monsters. The problem I was seeing was that I haven’t _seen_ any yet. It’s really quiet out there for a town that was stalking me for most of my time here.”

He quickly felt guilty. Harry had gotten impatient and frustrated with James in record time and he was taking it out on him. He mentally took a step back, drew another one of his learned calming breaths, and recomposed himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come across so curt. I’m just having a hard time readjusting to being back here.”

James didn’t seem offended. Somehow that made Harry’s guilt a little worse, and he pushed right past that for the sake of his sanity. The flashlight was lowered and placed on the table, reducing their overall light, and bringing the more unflattering, disturbing shadows to their faces. James took his seat again, leaning back into the coarse padded booth, and put his hands on his knees to stretch. Harry awkwardly stood there another moment as he realized that they were going to have a longer chat, and drug a chair over to get comfortable across from him.

Sitting down felt good. He didn’t notice how tired he was already until his legs were thanking him. He placed the pipe on the table, drawing a glimpse of it from James. Once they’d both settled, James fixed Harry with his attention.

“How the _hell_ did you get out of Silent Hill? What were you even doing here in the first place?”

Harry’s laugh sounded exhausted. “That’s a really long story, man. I was here.. oh, seventeen years ago? Yeah,” he chuckled at James’s incredulous face. “that puts some age on me, huh?”

James shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never really been good at guessing peoples’ ages.”

“I’ll take a compliment where I can get it,” he grinned. “But, yeah.. seventeen years ago.” Harry sobered. “My daughter was having some nightmares. She wanted to be taken to Silent Hill, and I had no other choice. I loved her, so if she wanted to go to Silent Hill we were going to go to Silent Hill if it meant she could get rid of those nightmares.

“We got in the car and we went. There was an accident as soon as we got here, I got knocked out, woke up, and Cheryl was gone.”

James cut him off. “You said your daughter’s name was Heather.”

“Yes. She’s Heather now,” Harry confirmed, not without a wince. “But she was Cheryl then. Don’t think about it too hard,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “I’m not going to get into all of it now. The point is that I drove my daughter here when she was a little girl, and she got lost, and I went looking for her. I ran all over this damn town looking for her, saw all sorts of depraved things and monsters and things I didn’t ever want to see again, hell - I didn’t ever want to _be_ in this goddamn place again for as long as I lived.”

Harry’s shoulders sank, and he slowly ran his hand down his face. It hit him again that he was really here one more time, and that he couldn’t save his little family from hell on earth. He shook his head at himself, and sat up straighter in the chair. “We got out. Things had happened and when we left, Cheryl wasn’t the same, and.. I’m not going to get into the specifics, James. It’s hard to explain and it doesn’t make sense and I’ve never been able to make any sense of it. The point is that I’m here again for the same reason: my daughter is lost and I know that she’s here. I have to find her and take her home and get this horrible place out of our lives forever.”

James was forced to accept that. He nodded, and looked away. “That’s.. sure is a lot. Wow.” Harry glanced at him, and smiled the same little smile that popped up on James’s face at his flub. “I don’t know what to say. If she’s here, we’ll find her.” He looked at him, sad and certain. “You gotta get out of here for good.”

“Thanks. We will.” Harry turned in the chair, setting his elbows on the table and threading his fingers together. “What about you? What are you doing here? Are you from Silent Hill?”

James avoided his eyes as he prepared an answer that he wouldn’t have to say. The radio in his pocket screeched awake, and jolting Harry so hard he nearly fell out of his seat. The noise was piercing, crackling and popping and tuning itself between jarring frequencies. James immediately rose, Harry following in a fraction of a second, and he snatched the light from the table. 

“Take this,” James said, tossing it at Harry’s chest. Harry caught it in the nick of time, fumbling to find the tight pinch clasp to tuck onto his jacket as he grabbed his weapon. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t you need it?” Harry asked belatedly over the din of the radio. James pushed past him, heading for the back of the cafe, and clicked on the light that Harry neglected to notice.

“I have my own.”

Harry took off after James right as his heels. The radio screamed its gravelly warnings, throwing this poor loyal father right back into his tormented memories, and his heart thrummed so hard he wished he could rip it out of his chest and throw it as far as his arm would take it.

This was his reality again. This was Silent Hill.


	5. Stop Stopping

They ran. Harry was so close on James’s heels that he was nearly colliding on every step. The rusty door banged on the wall when it was thrown open, and the two of them raced down the narrow alley. It took seconds to land on Katz St., the wail of the radio deafening in the abandoned street. They stood in the middle of the road, frantically looking both ways, until James grabbed Harry’s sleeve and yanked him to the right. Harry turned on a dime and took off after him, only to stop again in the intersection at the sound of a pitched, gurgling woman.

From the fog emerged a staggering, loose-limbed creature that was closer than either of them had anticipated. It shuffled on buckled legs, its ropey arms swinging carelessly in the momentum. The head drooped on its neck, masking its face from everything but the asphalt, and they ought to be grateful for it. The entirety of this abomination was ravaged in sickening swirls of exposed muscle, black rot eating away at its flesh, and raw, peeling skin. Like most of the hell creatures in Silent Hill, it was an impossibility. The thing moved as though it was treading through tar, but these two were wise to the fact that that shouldn’t be undermined.

The stench of it reached them as soon as they saw it, triggering bile washing up Harry’s throat, and gritted disgust on James’s face. It smelled of charred meat forgotten in an industrial oven fueled by sulfur and was heavy with the unmistakable odor of wet, moldy clothes. Every breath it took sounded labored and painful, and vaguely feminine. In its wake were slicks of thick blood, and if they dared to be any more observant, flung drops of blood from its stiff fingertips as the arms swayed.

This was Harry’s welcome party. It was a party of one and that was more than enough. The sight of it left him frozen in place for a multitude of hours that were condensed into several threatening seconds. When struck with terror, one forgets how long seconds truly are. He was stuck in it. The radio was just background noise to the head spinning fear that gripped him. 

He nearly ate pavement when James once again seized his arm and pulled him out of the moment and down the street. Harry went after him in a daze, his brain and legs acting on autopilot to keep up with the misplaced civilian he was now reliant on. They raced down Katz, the squeal of the radio still strong in warning, but for the third time in their escape, it was James’s turn to brake hard in the road. Harry crashed nto him, the both of them catching themselves before a stumble.

“What’re you doing?!” Harry hissed to the back of James’s head. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t just stop like that—“

“What the hell is _that?”_

Harry looked over his green shoulder. The sigil was still planted right in the road. James stared at it, disquieted. It was foreign to him, and told him it was something he was going to be much more than just an acquaintance to it. It was mocking him. Taunting him. James felt threatened, and with good reason, and all he wanted to do was run away from it, and the way it itched in his brain.

Harry was anxious behind him. “C’mon, James, keep moving,” he urged, starting to sidestep him to blindly lead the way. James came to his senses and cut him off, dashing into the apartment building. Harry had to ignore the dread that went along with entering the lobby, and they ran up the stairs skipping a step at a time.

The radio was unrelenting, as was the pitch black darkness of the hall stretching before them. Their flashlights illuminated the disgusting walls as they hurried to the stairs to ascend to temporary safety. The dark made it look like the hall was a mile long. It wasn’t; it was easy to cover the distance in under thirty seconds if they ran. They were focused; they were propelled by their survival instinct.

Through the noise of static, Harry heard crying. The crying of a girl was hollow and trapped behind one of the doors as he passed it (the hall was so short! it didn’t need to seem to long! he was so close to the stairs!) and then came the voice that speared his heart, and body, in place.

“Daddy!”

Harry sucked a hard breath and looked at the crusted doorknob. Guilt hit him like a truck. The little girl was sobbing on the other side of the door, breaking his heart and kicking his protective fatherly instinct into foolish gear. She sounded so scared. She sounded like she was abandoned. Another cry took his chest in a crushing twist, and knowing that they had to hurry, knowing they were in danger, knowing the town was baiting him, forcing him to stop and make himself vulnerable, but he couldn’t live with the possibility that he’d leave Cheryl to suffer alone.

“Daddy!” she cried pitifully. “Daddy, please! Please help me..”

“Cheryl, baby,” he whispered in ache, weakly reaching for the knob. “It’s okay, honey, I’m gonna get you out.”

Like hell he was. James’s strength was angry when Harry was ripped away from the apartment and dragged down the hall. He was all but thrown through the stairwell door and shoved up the steps to the second floor, where James manhandled him one more time when Room 212 yielded, and he staggered to the middle of the living room as the door slammed shut.

Harry was dazed. The radio had silenced. His head swam in murky sludge as it tried to catch up with everything that had happened since they left the cafe. Too much information was squeezed into a span of minutes just shy of ten, perhaps, but neither of them would ever know. His eyes rooted to the crusted floor, the flashlight’s white ray bobbing as his breath heaved. Harry could barely process anything, much less James’s furious step towards him.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” James bristled. “What was that? You can’t stop in the middle of the hall like that! Didn’t you hear the radio? Don’t you remember what that means?”

Harry couldn’t respond in his struggle to process. James scoffed over his shoulder and fidgeted. The questions were mostly rhetorical anyway. He sighed and rubbed at his forehead, and took a walk to the kitchen to cool off.

Harry was beginning to pull himself together when they both looked up in cold horror. There were footsteps running beyond the apartment. Light ones, like a child’s. They passed their hideout, stopped, and then returned. The tread sounded heavier now, like they’d grown to an adult’s weight, and came to a stop outside the door.

The tension was thick. Both men were waiting, staring at door with bated breath. There was hardly a full minute of rest. The town had gleefully initiated the hunt, and had decided to begin with a marathon. They were not just kept on their toes; they were kept on the tips of the hair that stood on end.

Then the knob rattled. Like lightning, James hurled himself at the door and slammed it shut the moment that it tried to open. He braced his weight on it, his eyes wide as the knob rattled again and again, and a force attempted to counter his strength.

It gave up. James didn’t. He leaned everything he had into keeping that door shut, and then looked pleadingly to the disoriented father in the middle of the room. “Harry,” he whispered, “please. Help me keep it shut.”

Harry was at a loss. His eyes roved blankly to James. There was desperation in the air, and he couldn’t do anything about it. His body felt numb; it didn’t even feel like his. A knock rapped on the door, and a girl’s muffled voice begged for her father.

“Daddy, please help me. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what’s going on. Dad.. please..”

The voice was familiar, and too unnatural to be trusted. It rose and fell in pitch from child to teenager in each sentence. James stared anxiously at Harry, watching his every move - more like the lack thereof. But Harry was trapped in place by his own deadened mentality.

The girl’s weeping went ignored. Soon it petered off, and the footsteps receded down the stretch of the hall. Only when they were gone did James feel for a lock on the door, and to some miracle there was, and the deadbolt slid into place.

Neither of them noticed that the radio’s static was hushed but humming that entire time. James peeled his body tiredly from the door and looked out at the man who wasn’t in himself. He looked so despondent.. lost. James’s anger had washed away, and now he appeared awkwardly sympathetic.

“That was Heather, wasn’t it?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. And Cheryl.”

James’s head bobbed their brief uncomfortable silence. “Yeah. But that wasn’t her.”

His lousy attempt at comfort actually brought Harry back into the present. He stared at him like he’d told him the earth was flat and he had a globe to prove it; he was astounded at how empty James’s head was.

That dealer was out on a really, really long smoke break.

“You don’t say.”

The snap of the icy sarcasm caused James to look away. Harry, heavy with the stress and confusion of everything, turned his back. There was a stained green chair that faced a broken TV, and he trudged over and sank into it.

He needed a few minutes to sort himself out. He didn’t want to hear or see James, or the rest of this decrepit space, or acknowledge the blood that was caked to the unit in front of him. He didn’t even want to think. He could barely feel. Harry needed to breathe and come down from the displacement of his brain from his body. He just needed a few minutes to himself.

James silently took in the scene. He’d seen this before. Harry was no dead body with a gaping hole in the back of its head and remaining features concealed under blood, like the other man was. He recalled feeling like it was an omen then. Now he felt mocked. Harry sitting in the chair like that was a cruel joke. 

He had to wonder if that decision was Harry’s alone, or if the town had something to do with it.

Of course, he knew the answer. James quietly left the living room. He went into the bedroom and sat on the edge a mattress that was yellow and sagged. Harry needed alone time to gather himself, that was made abundantly clear. He understood that. There were many times in his life where James could relate. In that, though, James felt the pang of rejection. 

He’d upset Harry. He had been hotheaded in that whole stressful escape and battle for sanity, and he knew that was a flaw he had to live with. How selfish of him to feel rejection at a time like this, from a person he barely knew, whose prior visit to Silent Hill had left him unprepared for the rest of his life. James was so full of self-pitying that he went to wallow in it alone in the aftermath of someone else’s trauma. He was pathetic, insensitive, and helpless to know how else to be.

He didn’t think with words. He thought with feelings, and though there was a numbing effect to his foul pool of negativity, he was resigned to sit in it until Harry was ready to join him.

So James waited. He was accustomed to it. He was good at it. He hated it. It left him alone with himself, and kept him lonely. As his mind took the merry-go-round of problems and emotions that played over and over ad nauseam, he waited. And waited. And sighed.

There was no point in noticing how his hands were getting cold, and droplets of water gathered at his fingertips, and plummeted at will to the dark floor.


	6. Don't Ask That

The room smelled like dust and decades of abandonment. Harry had smelled the same unmistakable scent in laundromats, government offices, the notary, the living room before they’d moved. Somehow it stuck to spaces that were not in fact forgotten by its last tenants. It was just an odor that was created by the materials that sat for too long in too hot days and stained the entire room. It was old. Hot wood walls and hot musky carpets, even if there were none.

Mixed in with the soggy mold that clung to seemingly every wall in Silent Hill, and Harry had a cocktail that he hated to find vaguely comforting.

His eyes stung. He was so tired that his eyes were begging him to stop the strike against sleep. He couldn’t sleep. Oh, how he wanted to though: the chair was comfortable and cradled his body like it had been crafted for him, stuffed at just the perfect consistency, and it was so much like the chair at home.

God. Heather. _Ohh, Heather,_ his thoughts groaned as he rubbed his eyes. Every time he thought he’d come to terms with being back in Silent Hill, he went right back to square one: he could not fucking believe he was back in Silent Hill. Their life was fine. Heather was graduating high school soon. She was considering college. There was a boy she liked. She was trying to figure out her place in the world. She _had_ been acting a little strange lately; she was being more secretive about her computer, more protective about her closet, giving him that strained, odd look that teenagers gave when they wanted to talk about something and were too scared to know how to approach it.

His poor daughter. He loved her so much. Harry adored being a father - being _her_ father. He was going to find her and bring her home and he felt so guilty about how flat he felt about everything so far. It was like a switch flipped. It was like Harry was doing a duty, and he _hated_ how cold and removed that was. He didn’t mean to feel like that. He knew it. Maybe it was also survival instinct kicking in to prevent him from making too many mistakes.

It was just this town. It was aggressively fucking with him and mocking him with that last little act. He couldn’t do anything. It was a horrible thing for his body and brain to shut right off. But it was that survival instinct, yet again, protecting his sanity for as long as possible.

He had to stop thinking about this. It was draining him faster than it took just being around James. Oh, shit! James!

Getting up, Harry winced as he stretched, and swiveled to look around for the first time. This was a pretty small apartment. One or two people probably lived here; it wasn’t big enough for anyone else. He sighed and put his hands in his pockets, making his short journey to the bedroom.

At the doorway, he leaned his shoulder into the frame and looked down at his unfortunate companion. James was, once again, lost in his own little world. Harry wondered how often James just mentally departed from reality. Sitting there he looked like a man who moonlighted as a professional statue. He was so patient. It was eerie.

Harry cleared his throat. James took his eyes away from the floor and up to him. Harry tried a smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” No smile.

No big shock. James apparently wasn’t ready to give back too many of those. “Listen, uh.. I want to apologize for.. everything back there,” Harry offered clumsily. “I just.. it was a lot.”

“It’s fine,” James said. “I’m not upset. That was pretty hectic.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “That really caught me off guard. I didn’t expect the monsters to be like—”

“I, uh— sorry for interrupting, I just want to say that I’m sorry, too.” James’s hands shrugged between his knees. “For losing my temper.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Eeehh, it’s alright. I think you were justified there.”

Harry thought that James had a hint of a smile for him then, but he was willing to pick up the slack. He felt a little better anyway when he smiled at James, that poor soul. “You doing okay?”

James looked at him. No one had asked him that in a very, very long time. Amazingly, it lifted a little off his loneliness. “Yeah. I’m alright. Just tired.”

“God, me too,” Harry grunted. “I feel like I could sleep for two days.”

James gestured behind him at the bed. “You can lie down for a while, if you want.”

Harry shook his head as he pushed off the door frame. He pulled his hands from his pockets as he took a seat beside James, his weight sinking into the springs. “Nah. I shouldn’t. Maybe later.”

He smiled again at the man who was too sad to return it. James clasped his hands uncomfortably and looked down. Interesting, Harry thought, that he had been so aggressive only a short time ago, and now he read as chronically submissive. He was enigmatic. 

That didn’t mean it was positive in any way. Harry eyeballed him. “You look so pensive. What’re you thinking about?”

James sniffed and began to absently worry his hands. He must’ve been nervous, Harry noted, since they were covered in a thin sheen that was wiped and renewed when the palm passed over the hand. “How unfair it is for you to be here.” James frowned lightly. “You shouldn’t be back in Silent Hill.”

“I completely agree with that,” Harry nodded. “It wasn’t exactly on my bucket list to return.”

James’s mouth opened and snapped shut. Whatever he was going to say was very quickly filtered. Then he said, “You were lucky to have left in the first place.”

“Yeah. I am.” Harry felt awkward then. James probably meant that as one of his skewed ideas of comfort, but it came across very passive aggressively. He decided to dismiss it. He was prepared to give James the benefit of the doubt for as long as he could, for both their sakes.

“So.. I think we got interrupted last time we were talking,” Harry started with a sprinkle of humor. “What brought you to Silent Hill, anyway?”

James’s hands worked at each other like a squirming knot. Harry felt a chill breeze by his neck and he shot a look over his shoulder, quickly rubbing at the spot. He exhaled dramatically and leaned back to align his jacket zipper. James looked at him in muted curiosity.

“Whew. Got cold all of a sudden,” he explained, overacting his shiver the way that dads often do. “Must be a draft in here.” When James had nothing to contribute, Harry redirected them back to the question. “Sorry. Anyway. What brings you here, James?”

James’s bleak eyes bore into Harry’s. They seemed dark, now; foreboding; a cautious and firm barrier between him and Silent Hill’s unwanted returning tourist. Harry had seen that look before. It was the same thousand-yard stare that the mirror had reflected back at him for years. It was haunted, hunted, and deeply, irreparably hurt. 

The answer to his question didn’t come as a surprise.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry lowered his gaze to the floor. Now that they approached that particular topic.. neither did he.

They sat in silence.


	7. He Doesn't Notice Anymore

James didn’t want to talk about anything. 

Silent Hill had been feeling strange lately. He noticed it some time ago (which would have been counted as weeks if time had any importance here). The air had shifted. It had excitement. It was darker and buzzing with building anticipation, like the tourist town it was supposed to be in the preparations of a festival. 

For being so tightly bound here, he was left uninformed. He was also left mysteriously and completely alone. The monsters became disinterested in him and made themselves sparse, forcing James into an open world of isolation. To his chagrin, it actually hurt his feelings. These aberrations were created for him and hunted him every day, and had for possibly years. Now, they only jerked in his direction, jabbered in acknowledgment as the radio’s static danced, and then moved on.

Not even the Red Pyramid Thing had been seen, nor the ungodly scrape of his knife heard, for a worryingly amount of time. James was rejected by his own walking traumas. 

That made the affliction of Silent Hill so much more unbearable. 

His wandering became more aimless. He took to standing in the middle of streets in the dense fog and do exactly nothing. He stood there, void of thought, dead in feeling, and remained there through the end of day and end of night. Nothing was going to come for him. The radio never hummed. He’d do this for days.

He didn’t even notice.

Then he went to the lake. When he sat down, the town’s mood shifted again. It became livid. The anger throttled his guts and he’d held tight to the bench, preparing to vomit, and the bile never made it past the back of his mouth. His head thundered and vision hazed. Silent Hill was throwing a fit, and James was allowed the joy of experiencing it, for the price of not knowing why.

It eased. The energy was still raging, but had calmed itself enough to gain another strange emotion: excitement. It was childlike, the anticipation of a toy at a birthday party, a cupcake before dinner. James caught his breath and sat back, absolutely lost. Silent Hill was simultaneously throwing a tantrum and quivering with unholy suspense.

James had felt a presence. Someone else was here. It didn’t bring him comfort or hope. No one else ought to be here ever again. He felt dread knowing a living soul was walking the streets - _his_ streets - and that’s when the town whispered in his head.

He ignored it. He met Harry. He left the lake and made a promise to himself to get him and his daughter out of Silent Hill for good.

No, he didn’t know the full story yet. What he did piece together is that Harry was important to Silent Hill and it wanted to do something very terrible about it.

He studied Harry. Harry Mason was the town’s strange enemy. He looked unassuming, and most of the time, those were the types of people to watch out for. He saw streaks of silver in his woodsy brown hair, and lines at the corners of his eyes. James was in fact terrible at guessing ages, as he’d stated before, but he wagered that Harry was at least in his late forties. That made sense, didn’t it, with a daughter who’s seventeen? He wasn’t sure. 

He watched Harry’s weight leave the bed. As he went to search the rest of the apartment, James took his direction to the floor again. Harry did not belong here. _He did not belong here._ He didn’t want him here just as much as the town didn’t. James had a duty now. He had to focus on it, no matter what the town tried to do. He had to keep telling himself that.

He closed his eyes. His body felt heavy. That was the burden of all that he was. He was a self-pitying coward and doormat. He wished he didn’t have to be the one to help Harry out. James would rather run away and leave him to figure it all out on his own, so he could be rotting in self-imposed loneliness. 

James sighed and brushed the trickle of water from his forehead. The top of his head was damp and cold. He wiped his freezing hands on his jeans as he stood, blinking an eye against a drip. Silent Hill wanted him to be poisoned and ingested by his own self. It was a struggle not to fall to it. He plowed through.

He left the bedroom and found Harry at the kitchen counter frowning over a tourist map. He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets and waited. After a while, it was clear that Harry was either too busy pouring over the map, or that he was expecting James to say something first. He’d have to take initiative. 

He cleared his throat. “What’s that?”

Harry chewed his lower lip. It appeared to James that his assumption was correct. “A map. We’re in South Vale.”

“Uh huh.”

“I have no idea where South Vale is. I thought I recognized some of the shops when I arrived.. and it _looked_ the same, too. Like, the main road I came in on.”

James shrugged. “I don’t know. The main road is Nathan.”

“I didn’t come in on Nathan,” Harry murmured, rapping his fingers on the nasty tile. “I arrived off of.. hmm.. well shit, now I can’t remember.”

James couldn’t find anything to say, and tilted his head when Harry met his eyes. After a short pause, Harry tried to prompt him. “Where did you come in?”

“It was an observation deck,” James told him. “It led down to Toluca Lake.” He stepped closer and leaned over to point at it on the map. “There.”

Harry frowned at the spot. James’s finger had left behind a dewy puddle on the waxy, thin paper. He looked at James again now that he was closer, and squinted in concern with what he saw.

“James, are you wet?”

James looked at him. “No.”

Harry gave him a wary eye, and then was at the map. “Hm. Well, I don’t know what to do. This isn’t my area, clearly. These are your stomping grounds.”

“Where were you last time?”

“Silent Hill,” Harry sighed, standing straight and rubbing the back of his aching neck. “That’s what the map said.” He screwed his eyes up at the ceiling, squinting. “I think I was also in Central Silent Hill. I have no idea,” he sighed, shrugging so grandly his hands clapped on his thighs when they dropped. “I have no idea where we are or where to go.”

James’s shrug was much less committed. “We could go to Central Silent Hill. Maybe we can find a map of it somewhere.”

“That’d make sense,” he said. “But how certain are we that we’ll find one? If the town doesn’t want us to have it, we won’t.”

He tucked his chin thoughtfully. “I’d guess it’s on the other side of the lake.”

“Yeah. I remember there was a drawbridge.”

“So if we just take Nathan all the w—“

“Wait. Is there a ferry or a boat here?” 

James looked up into the eyes of a hopeful man. Maybe he’d never find out how many times he’ll be lying to him. He wished he’d feel regret for it. “No.”

Harry folded the map and tucked it into an inner pocket of his jacket. James was sorry to see that deflated look on his face. He turned away so he didn’t have to, taking one last survey of the living room.

“We should go,” he said, fiddling with the radio in his pocket. “Maybe we’ll find a map or something.”

“After you,” came a worn out sigh behind him. James nodded. He opened the door and took the lead, guiding Harry down the hall the opposite way they came.

Harry followed. He had no choice but to trust in his melancholy tour guide. He thought that maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but the hall smelled denser of wet mold, and the carpet even more waterlogged than the last time they were there.

James didn’t seem to notice.


	8. Canned Laughter

The sigil was still there. It was deeply uncomfortable to look at and worse to be near. From it produced a thrum that bore into the crevices of their brains and strung a sandbag of tension between their eyes. It hurt to look at it and they were glad not to, though both were too in pain to recall that this wasn’t a problem before.

They skirted it and began down Katz, and reached Munson when their dizzying headaches faded and James realized something strange.

“Harry, did you see a blockade back there?” He asked cautiously.

Harry looked down the road. “Where? Down the street?”

“Yeah.”

“No, why?”

“You’re certain?”

“Yeah. I came down this way from the park,” Harry told him. “There wasn’t a blockade.”

James frowned, faraway and unsettled. “That’s not right. There’s always been a blockade up.”

“Hm.” Harry swung his pipe idly at his side. “That’s not nice to hear.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t really tickle me either.”

Harry smiled, turning his head to watch James pass him before he fell into step in his wake. “No? Then what does tickle you?”

“I dunno. Things that tickle,” James replied, curiously venturing southbound into the fog. 

“Some things that tickle you don’t tickle other people.” Harry lofted the pipe across his shoulders and slung his arms over it like a scarecrow on its cross. He was hoping to get some kind of banter going with the man that had a pitiful sense of humor, and he wasn’t going to get that just yet.

He came to pause beside James, who had come to yet another stop. This seemed to be the theme of their travels together so far and Harry wasn’t itching for it to keep up like that.

“What’s the problem now?”

James’s head shook gently in confusion. “There used to be a blockade here too. This doesn’t make sense.”

Harry jut his lips thoughtfully. “I dunno what to say. Maybe the construction is done?”

He really wished that James had appreciated jokes. He hadn’t even gotten a nose laugh. James only made a bland noise and pressed on, and Harry dismounted his weapon to his side again.

“Well, I guess we’re allowed to see what’s on the other side. Isn’t that nice?”

He got no response. James simply walked. This part of the neighborhood, he came to find, was thick with industry. Car repair, machinery garages, tools for retail and rent were advertised on long stretches of painted concrete walls. As the fog sifted around them and revealed these lonely, peeling signs, he felt calm. It reminded him of home. 

He’d given Heather a house in a pretty neighborhood with a park and plenty of walkable destinations, but a small gift to himself was an easy drive to a campus of industry and commerce. He couldn’t fully explain why it soothed him to guide the car lazily around the huge lots and see whose truck was in port. Harry started to recognize truckers and their vehicles. Security finally cleared him of being just a curious guy getting his boring kicks and not some creep fishing for bad indulgences. Harry had gotten to know some of the guys and gals of that campus, and it gave him a little warmth to wonder how they were doing.

Even Silent Hill couldn’t steal this comfort away.

James almost lost him at the corner. Neither one of them were in the same conscious world, and so forgot to pay attention to each other. Harry was quicker to notice and catch up, and even startled James when he announced himself with a simple “Whew!”

“Jesus!” James snapped. “What the hell was that?”

“No, I’m Harry. And you ditched me,” he accused playfully. “You were just gonna let me wander off, huh?”

“No,” he replied tentatively. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Harry sighed and scuffed his boot on the next stroke of step. “James, please. I’m really just joking around.”

“I know,” James said without a lot of confidence as he crossed Harry’s path to approach the hospital. Harry tried not to get irritated with him as he shadowed him at a stroll. 

“Really? Because I can’t tell when you are taking me seriously and when you’re not.” He climbed the steps and paused to look up at what building they were about to visit, and ignoring James’s unreadable face. “A hospital. Good call. So there’s still supplies in here, huh?”

James held the door open for him. “I was going to look for a map, but sure, if you want to pick up a few things.”

Harry nodded a thanks and made it inside. “I think it’d probably be a good idea. I’d hate to get attacked by dogs or monsters— or monster dogs and then be left with my dick in my hand and no bandages.”

James cast him an odd glance that also held a curl at the corner of his mouth. “Monster dogs are gonna go for your dick?”

Harry shrugged. “They might!”

“Is that what happened last time?” he asked as he began to search the reception counter.

“Almost, on a few occasions. More than I’d care to admit,” he added, venturing into the nurse’s station.

“I’m not really sure that I like what that says about you as a person, Harry,” James replied, muffled between the rooms. Harry had to laugh to himself as he cruised the cabinets. Maybe James did have a sense of humor, as inconsistent as it seemed to be. He felt better now, though. The mood between them was lighter. The tension ebbed and flowed as they tried to figure each other out, and frankly it was more exhausting than a common acquaintance would have been. Hell - this was nearly on par of dealing with Heather and her mood swings. Harry was pretty certain at this point that this was the nature of James and not a projection he put onto him. 

But people also don’t like to point fingers at themselves.

Grey bandages and aspirin with a smudged expiration date went into his pocket. When he went to see what James was up to, he found the young man reading a magazine at the counter he’d left him at. “Slacking off already?” He approached and leaned on the counter too, propping his elbow on the surface and peering down at what dusty, grossly out of date article James was reading.

“There’s no map,” he replied, dragging a page over with his fingertip. “Not here, anyway. Did you find some supplies?”

“Hey, I was reading that.” He frowned at James, who didn’t look up, but indulged him in turning the page down again. “Ah, thanks. I was really getting into, uh.. Mrs.. Morganstan’s prize dahlias winning first prize.” Harry’s frown turned genuine then, and a half hearted sneer tucked his lip.

Dahlia wouldn’t have struck his heart like it did if he was back home, but here, it was hot iron through a pillow.

He wasn’t going to let it sour his mood, and so he flicked his head back and peered at James over his arched nose. “Wonderful news, too bad we missed the county faire.”

James made a noncommittal sound and pushed back from the counter. Harry inclined his head towards his shoulder and eyed him as he went to pick through the few pamphlets that lay in grimy plastic mounts on the wall. “So, nothing here. Shall we move along?”

“Probably. We could have better luck at the inn or gas station up the street.”

“Great.” He followed James out of the hospital and joined him at his side on the trip towards Nathan Ave.. It would hardly be a long trip. They could have passed the time in a quiet as thick of the fog outside of their bubble, and James likely would have preferred it. The radio was peacefully silent, and the white blindness hanging around them made every five minute walk up the street feel like an hour. Harry was sore for distraction, and James’s spike in chattiness in the hospital gave him hope that he was willing to keep at it.

They passed a building boasting magenta neon that was as dead as this world. The exterior was eye catching even in the veil of foggy gloom, and Harry did a double take. The simple and suggestive advertisement clicked in his head and Harry barked a laugh, which pulled James’s eyes from the road. “Wow,” he grinned. “What’s Heaven’s Night? Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s a strip club,” he affirmed stiffly, darting his eyes at Harry. “It’s nothing special.”

“Did you go in?” Taking the following silence as dirty admission of his guilt, Harry grinned slyly. “Oh, you old dog.”

“There was nothing in there.”

“Aw, the dancers were on break?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

It took great willpower not to roll his eyes. James swung on a runaway pendulum, and Harry didn’t care much for it. The man was frustrating beyond belief. Just when he thought he could share a laugh with him, he went as icy and dry as the arctic. He dropped the subject.

Maybe Harry ought to be easier on James. After all, the new sights in this portion of Silent Hill were brand new to Harry but old news to its resident. If he had been trapped in this circle of hell for as long as James probably was, he would have been just as blasé about the neighborhood. He couldn’t be so harsh in his head just because he was aching for some normalcy. He took a learned breath and washed his irritation away. 

So with that in mind he didn’t comment on the bowling alley on the corner and lagged behind his tour guide to study the prices on the gas station marquis. Gas was cheap in Silent Hill, and Harry kept another joke about filling up his car before they left to himself. He caught up in time to catch the door as James stepped into the convenience shop, and scoured the meager offerings strewn on the shelves. 

“I’ve always been kind of confused about the retail here,” he said, refusing to bottle his voice any longer. “There’s hardly anything here. It’s like everyone rioted and took everything they could before getting out of here.” He picked up a stripped can and looked it over. “Or maybe the monsters are hoarding it for their own use.”

Silence replied. That was expected for a short span of time, but then it was too long since he’d heard evidence of the other man’s life. Harry looked for his golden head over the shelves and felt a spike of panic. James was nowhere to be seen. Then his voice came from behind the counter, cutting Harry off of calling his name. “I don’t think Chef Boyardee and toilet paper are on their grocery lists.” He popped up into view with a gun and a magazine that fit it. Harry exhaled a soft sigh of relief and set down the can. This man was going to give him heart problems that started with Cheryl — no, _Heather_ — and worsened every time he delayed a response.

“That’s not fair to assume.” He lay the pipe on the counter and watched James dismantle the gun and check it over. “Neat. That was a lucky find.”

“Not really,” James murmured. “I stored it here.”

“That was a pretend lucky find,” Harry corrected. “Do you use it much?”

“I try not to. Bullets are hard to find.” James set the weapon between them. “I have a shotgun stowed away too.” Their eyes met. “Which do you want?”

Harry’s heaving sigh sounded more like a raspberry as he considered his deadly options. “Uhh. I’ll take the handgun. I hope you’re better with the shotgun.”

“I’m pretty good with it.” James pushed the firearm closer to him as well as a partial box of bullets also fetched from beneath the counter. Harry pocketed the bullets and, double checking that the gun was safe to store, tucked it in his waistband at his back. He tightened his jaw. He thought he’d been paranoid and ridiculous to purchase a gun and intermittently work on his aim through the years. Today proved him wrong. Cybil might’ve been proud of him.

Truthfully, he felt a little sick. He took his pipe and turned to cruise the aisles for anything else to get his mind off the weight pressing against his spine. Harry found can after can without its paper, making itself an exciting surprise for anyone cracking it open. He must’ve been on the road and in Silent Hill for hours now and he hadn’t felt peckish in the least. He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten on his first foray here, and decided that he’d take one mystery food with him in the event that he’s starving.

“Hey, James? You want any of these?” James looked up from the magazine rack at Harry waving a can in the air.

“Uh, no thanks. I’m good.”

“What about for later? Could be peaches. Could be clam chowder. You could dine like a college king.”

James cracked a smile. “Wow. That’s a little too high brow for me. I’m peasantry, Harry. I ate corn nuts.”

Harry put the can down and ran his hands over the shelves, ducking to check each one. “Uhhhh, corn nuts, corn nuts.. nope. Sorry. No corn nuts here. And how the hell are corn nuts college peasant food?” he asked, fixing him with an accusatory squint. “They’re more expensive than ramen, if I recall. Corn nuts have actual flavor and sustenance. Probably. That puts you in the middle class range, doesn’t it? Did you go to a private college?”

James held up his hands defensively. “No sir, just community college. I guess I must’ve had rich friends to look out for me.” 

Harry chuckled and took a can for later. “Lucky you. I hope you capitalized on that.” With nothing else worthwhile, he made to leave. He paused by the rickety spin rack of cheap sunglasses and chose one as James swung the door open. “Hey,” he said, calling his attention. Harry dropped the sunglasses on his nose when James faced him and grinned, holding out his arms to bask in his own outstanding coolness. “Whaddya think?”

“You look great, Fonz.”

The grin split wider and Harry cocked a fingergun at the man whose humor was rare, but often was just his taste. “Eeeeyy.”

James scoffed a laugh and shook his head, giving Harry the closest thing to a grin so far. “You’re a dad,” he said with an air of dismissal, taking a step outside. Harry huffed and set the glasses back on the rack, pushing open the door before it could close on him. 

“I am a dad, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing.” James shrugged at him, and as they stood at the gas pumps, the remnant of his smile disappeared. James hadn’t thought much about his father and the funny way that all dads turned cheesy the moment they became a dad. Suddenly he was homesick. That brand of yearning had long been forgotten and so it rocked a ripple of nausea in his throat now. His poor old dad. There was nothing he could do about home or Frank Sunderland alone and waiting for his son to appear at his doorstep, and soon the feeling of helplessness would roll right off his shoulders.

Harry tapped his pipe on his calf. The moment was gone. “Alright. Shotgun, then..?”

“Yeah. Then we’ll see if we can get to Central Silent Hill.” 

“Where’d you store the shotgun?”

James searched the abandoned cobwebs overhead for his answer. “The inn. It’s just down the road.”

“Think they’ll have a map?”

“I guess we’ll see.”


	9. The First Day Ends

Jack’s Inn did not have a map. 

The shotgun was where James said it’d be, so they did have that going for them. The rest of it was agonizing. They had only South Vale and an educated guess on their side. This was a decent place to have another sit down and actually make a set of plans. Getting comfortable at the table in one of the open rooms that the motel offered, they opened their only map. 

If Nathan Avenue wound all the way around the lake, which James was sure it did, it’d take them to the amusement park that Harry remembered. He also mentioned seeing signs for a hotel nearby, and it was reluctantly confirmed, and so that was a good enough indication that they’d be heading the right way. The problem then was the possibility of the road being out. If that were the case they’d be shit out of luck, and that’s no way to be. 

Even so, there was a sliver of hope shaved off their shoulders that the roads were intact, and so they held it safe in their hands.

“What if we jimmied a car?” Harry suggested, mostly joking. 

“You know anything about fixing up cars?”

“Uhh, well,” he started, “I do know how to change the oil and a tire.”

“Just one tire?”

“Yeah, only one. If you need two tires changed, sorry buddy, you’re gonna have to find someone else way more competent.”

“That does set us back a bit with the car thing, doesn’t it?”

“What’s the matter, don’t you know how to change a tire?”

James supported his cheek on his fist. “Do I look like I don’t?”

“You look like someone avoiding the question.” Harry sat back in his chair and absently drummed his fingers on the table. “How about fixing a car to work?”

He was awarded with one of those signature dull stares. He shrugged. “I sure don’t. I slept through shop class in school. I scraped by with a C+, all because my lightbulb project was exceptional.”

“Oh, so you’re an electrician. If only that’d come in handy.”

“I don’t want to brag, but I’m probably the best one in Silent Hill.”

“But you’re not the best mechanic, and that’s what we’re really looking for right now.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. James was warming up to him - or so it seemed. He imagined that by what he’s learned so far about him, it’d be an entirely different story in a couple of minutes. He soaked up the banter while he could. As it turned out, James was kind of funny.

“I feel like I’m in a job interview. Did I bomb it?”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“I have a very good feeling about my chances.”

Those sad green eyes left him in favor of the drab, stained wallpaper. Strangely, James now appeared drained by the conversation, all the charm and wit he held all gone. Harry was right to expect it to fall away. He was disappointed to see it go so soon, and he shifted his weight awkwardly in the cheap, creaky chair.

It took another uncomfortable moment for either one of them to speak. “I slept through shop, too,” James admitted at last. “I barely know how to change a tire.”

Harry smiled. “A fellow slacker. That kind of takes me by surprise. You look like the kind of guy that would’ve enjoyed shop.”

James’s eyes fell from the wall, and lay unfocused on the layers of dust blanketing the windowsill. Harry’s mood began its gradual descent into tired disappointment. The exhaustion of trying to communicate with James, enjoy a conversation, then be stonewalled on the turn of a dime was going to wear him down into nothing, and they hadn’t even known each other a full day.

The silence yawned, and then James interrupted it. “I did,” he told Harry. “It was fun for me.”

Harry tried not to get too hopeful, but sat up in his seat. “What’d you like most about it?”

Though his face was stoic and faraway, James exuded a struggling air. Opening any aspect of his history to Harry was harrowing. He didn’t want to be known, and Harry shouldn’t be interested.

James sucked on his tongue and gave a menial effort to work with him. “The smell.”

“Oh, man. I love the smell of wood shops. Home Depot is one of my favorite places, just for the smell.” Harry grinned. “I’d buy a candle scented like that, and I’d only have to go in to Home Depot once a year.”

The ghost of a smile haunted James’s lips. As he leaned back it dissipated, and their eyes met. “Yeah.”

They stared at each other. One set of curious brown eyes asked the ones tinted green the question, ‘Who are you?’ and they replied, ‘No one.’ James cast his gaze away and got to his feet, fetching the shotgun from the bed. He double checked his supply of rounds and then turned to Harry. Harry rose slowly, the map tucked into his jacket and the pipe in his hand.

“Onward and upward,” he declared, the fatigue hanging on to the edges of his words. James turned the doorknob and stepped outside into total darkness. 

“Oh.”

Harry emerged and stared dumbfounded into the street. James clicked on his flashlight, and declared the obvious: “It’s night time.”

“What in the hell?” his companion wondered aloud, following his example and turning on the light. Their combined beams were enough to see a few feet ahead of them, not nearly as far as they were expected to. The darkness swallowed their light. 

“We were only inside for twenty minutes,” Harry muttered, squinting into the black street. “This is insane.”

“This happens,” James said flatly. “Everything usually gets worse around this time.”

“Usually?” Harry eyed him. “I’m not so sure I like the sound of ‘usually’.”

“Usually.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and looked at him. “It’s been really quiet lately. I haven’t seen many monsters at night. Or at all, for that matter.”

“Oh, that’s comforting,” came the reply, dry and sarcastic over a film of apprehension. “What about the one we saw earlier?”

James drew his lips into a half frown as he shrugged. “One of the first I’ve seen in a while, and I’d never seen it before.”

“What does that mean?”

His weight shifted between his feet. Harry might have felt like they were sitting ducks standing in the vulnerable nothingness that surrounded them, but James was nonchalant as ever. “I’ve seen everything that’s here. They’ve always looked the same. The one we saw before was entirely new. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Great. That’s really comforting.” Harry ran a heavy hand over his hair and exhaled a heftier sigh. “This kind of sets us back, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Wonderful.”

“We could try walking,” James suggested. “Like I said, it’s been quiet. We might not run into any trouble.”

Harry grunted a laugh. “Now that you said that, we lost all chances of that happening. Yeah, uh, I think we should go back inside and—“

And nothing. The radio bubbled to life, jolting Harry and bringing James to glance at his pocket in bored curiosity. Danger was looming somewhere nearby, and before they had a moment to decide where to run, a bone chilling siren rose its voice across the town.

James’s head snapped up in alarm. For the first time Harry would have seen disturbed horror take over his deadpan face, if he had had any ability to process. The siren was foreign in this part of Silent Hill. Its rolling wail was a parasite in Harry’s head, one that ruined the call of emergency vehicles and kept him from enjoying a boardwalk. That sound was the herald summoning the world to peel away in scabs and eat itself with bloodied rust.

His heart thudded in his stomach. His throat had become tighter than a hangman’s noose after the drop. His mind was chasing itself into circles that developed knots at a sickening pace, forcing him to think of every single terror he had seen seventeen years before multiplied tenfold, and muffling his comprehension under a thick, suffocating pillow.

There were many ways of dealing with PTSD, and he had been given those tools in his effort to help himself. He recognized his triggers. He practiced the count down and the grounding. Faced with living in his nightmares, all his learning packed its bags and took a midnight hike. Harry had frozen; he could barely breathe, and the siren sang a harrowing aria.

All the while, James was lost in his confusion, and blind to the man suffering beside him. “What the hell is that _siren?”_

“We need to go. Right now.” Harry didn’t wait for a protest or an agreement. He chose a direction and ran. James stared at his retreating back and took after him before he could lose him to the night. 

“Harry! Where’re you going?” he yelled over the gruesome duet. The stricken father didn’t know where he was going. He needed to find a place to hide, though there was no safety in the pockmarked floors and the chainlink walls that were corroded and sharp with orange rust. Every step would take him closer to the clang of metal echoing from underfoot and creaky churn of industrial fans stationed in the impossible walls, for asphalt and solid ground didn’t exist in the Otherworld. Harry didn’t know the night in South Vale, but in Old Silent Hill, there was only one way to spend it - and it began with the siren.

They ran. Harry took them down the road they kept being drawn to, to Munson Street and its rows of townhomes, and bounded up the steps to try doors. James didn’t feel his urgency, and stupidly watched him for the first two homes. “Harry!” he tried again, and fell on temporarily deaf ears. Harry needed desperately to get inside to safety, though there was no safe spot from the transformed hell he knew.

“James, would you _please_ help me out,” he grated as he passed him to the next stoop, “and try finding an unlocked door?!”

He stood there helpless and unhelpful, shadowing Harry to the neighboring house. The radio hadn’t stopped chattering yet, despite their loneliness. The threat of the Otherworld hung over Harry’s head like a waiting storm, and he didn’t yet know that its rust didn’t taint this neighborhood.

He wouldn’t take chances. He angrily shook a doorknob that wouldn’t turn, cold sweat beginning to dampen his shirt and make him shiver. “Come _on!”_ he seethed, warring with a door that wasn’t going to let him in. Over the din, he heard James’s voice.

“This one’s open!” Harry tore down the steps and up the next, shoving past James in the narrow hallway and slammed the door closed. The house was wrapped in darkness and accented by the light that bounced off their flashlights. James stood to the side, observing another one of Harry’s panic attacks, and the fight to bring himself down to earth.

Outside, the siren droned to a fade. The radio sank into silence once more. Harry’s shuddering breaths became forcibly calmer, though the last hitched in surprise when James’s feet scraped the floor.

Harry looked over his shoulder. The emotionally unmoved man had turned his back to him and was taking a gander at the musky, abandoned home. _How could he be so calm?_ he thought bitterly. In a world of hungry monsters that were too cowardly to show their face yet toyed with their fragile minds, he was both angry and jealous of James’s detatchment.

While Harry wondered if James was even human, the latter ventured into the open living room and kitchen. The sofa was overstuffed, brown, and darkly stained. The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in years, and the walls were a health inspector’s nightmare. Aside from that, it was one of the more cleaner spaces that existed here. It almost felt like a real home. So much, that he got the feeling that the owners were supposed to be back soon, and as guests, they were to wait for them.

He lifted his head in acknowledgment when Harry closed their distance behind him. “It really doesn’t seem like we’re allowed to go anywhere,” Harry said sullenly. “I feel like all we’ve done is be chased and forced indoors this whole time.”

“Mm.. yeah. It does.”

“And no fucking monsters. Just that one!” he continued furiously. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand what’s going on. We’re being toyed with. I just want to get Heather, and get out!”

James’s eyes followed Harry as he went to the kitchen and leaned on the counter. He was right. Silent Hill was playing a game he wasn’t used to. It didn’t bother him as much as it ought’ve; rather, he was intrigued. The town’s energy had turned to malicious glee. It was laughing at them - at Harry, specifically. James just happened to be along for the ride, and that didn’t add up. His part was being improvised. For the first time in what felt like centuries, he felt insulted for being played with like a cheap toy.

They spent the night in the house. The rooms were canvassed and gave them only the solemnness of a place that missed its family. During the wait they spent some time apart; Harry lay down for a while on a dusty but made bed, hoping that he could sleep the hours away. James moved listlessly downstairs, paving a trail through the dirty floors, until he came to sit on the couch.

Eventually, the sound of Harry’s feet descended the stairs, and James tilted his head back to look at him. The aging, worldweary father set his weapons with James’s on the coffee table and dropped into the easy chair adjacent. He ran his hand down his face and threaded his fingers over his soft belly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Well. Two questions. One: don’t you see the Otherworld when you hear the siren?”

James stretched his arms and leaned back into the cushions. “I don’t know what that is. The siren was totally new to me.”

Harry seemed doubtful. “You’re serious. You’ve never heard that before.”

“That’s right.”

“And the Otherworld?”

“I don’t know what that is,” he repeated. “You’re gonna have to help me out.”

“It’s..” Harry motioned unhelpfully in the air. “It’s this.. it’s when the whole world starts peeling itself away like ash and burning paper and underneath there’s chains. Like chainlink. And metal bars, and industrial walkways, and the walls are all barred and there are these big industrial fans, and there’s rust and blood and gore everywhere..”

James slowly shook his head. Harry, too, shook his head, but for a different reason - his was in disbelief. Describing the Otherworld never made sense. He sounded bonkers. He felt a little embarrassed by it, though he was in the right company to believe him.

“No, sorry. That never happens here.”

“What _does?”_

James slowly looked around the room, as though it had the answer. “Well.. nothing. I don’t know. I think I’ve been here so long I don’t notice much happening, or turning into anything, I suppose. I’m used to it.”

Harry drew a frown as he thought. “One thing I have noticed about this Silent Hill is how wet it is.” Their eyes met, warily gauging the other’s intentions. “It’s really, really wet. There’s water damage everywhere, the carpets are soaked, and even you seem like you’re dripping sometimes.” He eyed him up and down. “You seem dry right now, though.”

A defensive air rolled off James. Harry felt it, and James knew it. “I don’t know why there’s so much water damage here,” he said, annoyed. “I think you’re looking too far into things. It doesn’t need to be complicated. You know the town’s all screwed up. It does what it does and it doesn’t tell us why.”

They studied each other carefully for a long, tense pause. Harry sighed through his nose and took his eyes to collection of weapons on the coffee table. “I don’t buy it,” he mumbled. “There’s a reason it does these things. I want to know why.”

“You can’t know everything.” Harry looked up to find James fixing him with a stare that chilled his heart. Those dead eyes were warning him - threatening him - and knocked him right off the sanctimonious pegs he had unknowingly climbed up on. The look scared him. It was meant to.

“For your own good, Harry, keep your nose out of this town’s business. This isn’t your part of Silent Hill. It’s mine. We’re going to get you out of here and back to your part of town. We’ll find your daughter, and then you’ll leave. Until then, do me a favor: don’t ask too many questions.”

Like an animatronic switching off, the sudden hostility vanished and James defaulted to his quiet suffering, his eyes low and his shoulders slouched. 

Harry sat in shock. He closed his slacked jaw. He was aware, now, that he shouldn’t be thinking so much about himself, selfishly tied up in his head and consumed in his problems while he was here. He had to worry. He needed to survive. 

James was right about this not being his part of town, but the way that he said it made his stomach crawl. 

Their night would soon come to a close. When the darkness lifts, they’ll gather their things and tentatively step out into the streets once more. Nathan Avenue stretches far into the fog and they’ll have all day to walk it. They’ll walk in silence, uncomfortable tension keeping them a person apart, towards destinations that itched to poison and turn them.

Though somehow, that threat that lay on the horizon didn’t worry Harry so much as the one that walked silently beside him.


	10. Turn Around; Look At What You See

The journey along Nathan Avenue began as uneventful as nearly every one of their walks so far. They walked together and a man’s width apart. Harry was still off kilter and jittery from last night. He didn’t sleep, though his head and eyes had been heavy and begging for respite. No matter how hard he tried to focus and release his thoughts to get even a wink of sleep, it wouldn’t come for him. He blamed the anxious tingle in his chest on the deprivation. He felt as foggy as the thick atmosphere that engulfed them.

James didn’t appear to be affected by anything. His strides occasionally synchronized with Harry’s, and the scuff and click of his shoes where their pattern shifted somehow made Harry’s anxiety worse. In contrast to him, as it will always be expected of him, James was melancholy and entirely detached. He went on like a lifeless soldier, the shotgun carried in both hands, and nothing to offer but silence and defeat.

The street seemed a lot longer yesterday than it did this morning. Harry noticed a building on their right as the fog rolled around it, and interest slowed his feet. The highway borders gave way to picket fences, and beyond that a parking lot occupied with a few cars waiting for their lost owners to finish their business. In front of the cars was metal fence decorated with white donut buoys that kept guard of the forest, not that either one of them were keen on going for a hike.

It also boasted a sign:

**BOAT DECK**

“Hey, James? I thought there wasn’t a ferry or any boats here.”

James didn’t look his way. “There aren’t. There’s only the deck. Everything else is gone.”

Disappointed but taking his word for it, Harry moved on towards the building.

This was the sort of tourist attraction that he expected to see in Silent Hill. It was _ supposed _ to be a tourist town, a peaceful getaway and a great summer family trip to later gush about to their jealous friends. Harry was pleasantly surprised to see a, what he guessed to be, repurposed house. It appeared historical. Of course, the paint was peeling and disgraced with decay, and its teal roof was darkened with neglect. He was hit with the base human emotion of being disheartened by something precious being left to rot in its lonesome - even if it was in Silent Hill.

He slowed his pace. Dropping out of place beside James, he crossed the street to peer at the large sign nailed on the wall next to the double doors. 

“Silent Hill Historical Society,” Harry read aloud. “Huh. That’s kinda neat.” He stepped off the landing to lean towards the windows, trying to peer through glass that was boarded up and clouded with dirt. “I wonder if the doors are open. Have you been inside?”

Harry glanced up to find James facing him, giving him a short start. His posture and stone face seemed eerily still. Harry looked away and patted the sign, then went to try one of the doors. Locked, he tried the other. That too was locked. He rattled the handle with little hope, and had to walk away dissatisfied. 

“You ever been in there?” he asked the town’s informal resident. “Did you learn anything?”

“There’s not much in there,” James replied. “Some art. Plaques. Display cases.”

“Is the art any good?”

James shrugged. “Art is subjective, I think. Maybe you’d like it. Maybe not. It wasn’t really in my taste.”

“Hm.” Harry turned to consider the building, idly tapping his pipe in his palm. “I’m kind of disappointed.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to know what’s historical here,” Harry said, looking at him. “Learn some history. Something that’d.. I dunno, humanize the place?” 

James heard the diluted hope in Harry’s voice. Silent Hill had no humanity. Whatever Harry had experienced no doubt gave him a slim chance of finding any.

“I can’t imagine this town being human at all,” Harry continued, confirming James’s passing thoughts. “I guess I’d like to be able to link some kind of normalization to it. Make it real, and not.. this.”

Harry sighed and returned to the road. James fell into step alongside him again, that previous distance between them still honored. He twisted his hand on the barrel of the shotgun, grinding his teeth. He sucked on his tongue and clenched his jaw: an effort to keep the words in his mouth.

James remembered a Silent Hill that was alive and unassuming. It was pleasant - beautiful, even. It’d be a nice town to retire to, or buy a seasonal apartment. (**_Not_ ** _ a timeshare _ , Mary had firmly insisted when he proposed the idea. _ You’ll never get out of it and I won’t have you ruining my love for this place with it. _) It was a destination where a visitor couldn’t help being envious of its residents. How lucky they were to live in a quiet little locale like this. It must be heaven on earth. 

How lucky they were to live in a place like this.

How lucky they were to get to visit a place like this.

How lucky he was that she loved it so much.

How lucky he was to have had her.

How lucky, how lucky, how lucky, 

how lucky

how

James drew a breath - the kind that was meant to drop cycling thoughts on the cutting room floor. It drew Harry’s attention, and James sighed.

“It was real,” he quietly assured him. “It was a nice place to be.”

That was the most revealing thing about James he’d gotten thus far. Harry’s excitement almost got the better of him, tasting questions on his tongue, but last night’s warning bottled them up.

James remembered his threat. He should stick to it. What he wanted to say was none of Harry’s business and the less he knew the harder it could be for the town to manipulate him. It would be easier for Harry to focus on his daughter. 

He’d already promised himself when they met he wouldn’t let himself be discovered, and so he said, “It was pretty at the end of summer.”

Harry was near bursting with curiosity. Trying to stay respectful of their agreement while toeing the line, he asked, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

That sounded definitive.

“Peaceful.”

The way it was said told Harry that James was truly done talking about it. Their conversation ended. 

The road was long and Harry couldn’t even be allowed to appreciate the scenic view. He wondered how long it really was, both in miles and kilometers, and how he never really got the hang of kilometers. He also thought about Heather, and how Silent Hill tried to trick him yesterday into letting some hell demon out of an apartment. While expected, the town playing ruthless games starring his daughter felt mocking. 

Silent Hill always knew something that he didn’t. That was the main concept. When he took Heather away, he felt like he had more questions than answers. While raising her, he always regarded her with a little fear. Heather was born from someone, something, that held incredible power. Someday, she might accidentally use it - or it’d be stolen from her. Harry hated the way that this fear sat in his gut. He hated that he always knew this was going to happen.

He felt like he failed her when he got that rusty, broken call from her cell phone number. _ Dad! _ her voice cried. _ Dad, I n— —elp —ack to— Silent -ill— going to— me! D--d, —ve me! Don’t let them— _

Harry had been in the grocery store, of all places. He was debating instant oatmeal. Heather liked banana nut and strawberries and cream, he liked cinnamon. There was a multi-flavor box on sale, but the ratio of cinnamon outweighed the other flavors - and it included blueberry, which neither of them liked. He could get three boxes, each of their preferred flavor. The generic brand was cheaper. He didn’t mind the generic, but Heather knew the difference and would complain and whine all the way through their consumption.

He’d get her the name brand, at nearly two dollars more, because he loved her.

Next thing he remembered was his whole world shattering to his feet. His heart simultaneously stopped cold and plummeted into his gut, and sprang into his throat aided by the hot threat of vomit. Harry doesn’t remember tearing out of the store like a man chased by death itself, nor does he remember the drive that would intimidate a drag racer straight home.

He didn’t recall packing and driving here. The memory of parking and getting to the streets is hazy. The only thing that was clear are sordid, familiar businesses giving way to signs that he couldn’t place.

Now here he was, trying to piece together a riddle without many clues, alongside a man that he knew, deep down, he couldn’t (shouldn’t) trust.

_ How far was this damn road going to go? _

Harry sighed. He was about to pull out the map when company was announced with the distant sound of wicked life. It stopped them both. There was a woman crying in the fog. She was at their left— no, behind them— wait, maybe at their right— and she was choking. Her breath and voice spluttered through thick, wet gunk. They heard the evidence splatter on the ground. Her staggering feet were scraping, dragging on the street. The guttural retching wanted to make Harry gag.

Then, the radio tuned itself. Harry gripped his pipe tightly in both hands as he examined the thick clouds surrounding them. He felt fury building in his being. He was ready to fight. He was violently pent up. All the tension and the resentment that tormented him was given an opportunity to be put to use, and he wasn’t going to miss that chance. _ C’mon, you bastards, _ he thought loudly. _ I’m ready for you. _

Behind him, James stood at ease.

The smell reached them. It was the same they’d experienced before: burnt flesh and moldy clothes. Harry remembered what she looked like, how her arms swung and her spine could barely support her. Her flesh had been peeling, burnt to the bone in some places, and her head hung to conceal her shame. It sounded like there were more than one of these tortured women - perhaps two or three. 

Through his anger he knew that these weren’t actual women. He would never lay a hand on a real one. In fact, he was reluctant to even beat a monstrous one. The wash cycle of morality versus survival drove his rage ever higher, and deafened his ears to a sound that would have blown a mystery wide open.

Harry’s arm was suddenly hooked by unchallengeable strength, and he was running with James. He knew better than to protest, trying not to trip over their feet, but he was infuriated and frustrated by James’s forcible interruptions. This time, James’s hand was locked on his arm in a grip that tickled that new fear of him at the walls of his stomach, and the tempest that roared within him would soon trickle away.

The grotesque women choked on themselves and scuffled behind them, around them as the men ran their clumsy, inefficient race. The radio’s static soared and hurt Harry’s ears when it stubbornly tried to find a missing channel. His thighs and lungs were burning and James had been right not to let go of him. James’s speed suddenly surged, and his hand slid from Harry’s tricep to his wrist. For a moment, Harry thought he’d be abandoned, but James didn’t betray him. He clung to his wrist and pulled him along like a bull with a runaway cart.

Harry was losing his legs and his breath. He thought he’d collapse from exhaustion (really, he needed to stop wasting his gym membership and go in already) until luckily James’s sprint became a jog, and decreased to a stop. Harry gulped for air, bending over with his hand on his knee. Everything hurt. He was laughably out of shape. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to make a mad dash again today because he’d need some real recovery time, or else these old legs weren’t gonna be useful.

When he was able, he stood straight, and continued to catch his breath. This is when he realized that James was still holding on to his wrist, extending both his and Harry’s arms while he stood a couple feet in front of him. A little annoyed but mostly amused by it, Harry wiggled his arm to get James’s attention and let it go.

When James didn’t respond to it, Harry tried a different tactic. “Hey, buddy. Can I have this back?”

James fixed on him, and dropped his arm. Harry shook it out and tugged at his sleeve, trying a chuckle. “You’re kinda handsy, huh?”

“Huh?”

“You’re kinda handsy,” Harry repeated with a smile. “You keep grabbing me and dragging me around. You know, you could make good money as a personal trainer.”

James actually seemed embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said. “I just panic.”

“It’s okay. It’s a pretty effective method of getting me to go.”

“Yeah.. right.”

James turned from him and slowly walked ahead. Harry took little mind of how James didn’t seem to be winded from their run. He was still gathering himself. He caught up to him and that’s when he noticed something strange.

James spoke for him. “We’re back at the park.” 

Harry sunk into despair. “Aw, no,” he groaned and turned around and sure enough, the street was lined with the businesses that faced the lake, and the hedges that invited the street. James exhaled his disbelief, walking east past Harry to see the impossibility for himself.

They had looped right around to where they started. They didn’t even see where they were until the fog parted at the park. Now it was dissipating, gleefully exposing its rotten trick. 

Harry ground his fists into his forehead. He was so tired. So frustrated. How could they have run in a circle when the circle was literally paradoxical?

He shook his head and defeatedly dropped his arms to his sides. “The town doesn’t want us to leave yet,” James was saying. “I guess we aren’t ready to.”

Harry sighed through his nose and frowned at James. “Great. That both makes a lot of sense and makes me feel better.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Harry. We’re missing something. It’s too early to leave.”

“And how do you know that it’s ‘too early to leave’?” Harry bristled, breaking their contract. “What are you? _ Who _ are you? How do you know what the town does or doesn’t want?”

James set his jaw against Harry’s outburst. They stared each other down, James on the defense and Harry on the offense. 

The friction between them could start a wildfire.

Crackling began anew. Harry slammed his hand down on his pocket and shook the radio within. “Would you _shut the_ _fuck_ _up_ for _five minutes!”_ he yelled at it, only to realize that the static wasn’t coming from the broken red box.

No, the noise was coming from the fog. 

Forgetting their standoff, both men looked around in surprise. Something was mimicking the radio. The pitch dipped and screeched a garbled melody. They couldn’t tell where it was coming from until a body parted the fog and ambled towards them.

Finally, the radio itself joined the noisy fray. Harry clutched his pocket and jerked up his pipe to his protection.

The false radio buzzed and warbled. This aberration was feminine, too: it was short and slim, swallowed in black and writhing so hard it was difficult for it to keep its balance. It left inky footprints in its wake, smearing under the unstable drag of its feet.

This monster was more aggressive than the ones that taunted them from the white shadows, and the one they’d briefly encountered long before. She - no, it - lurched for them as its electricity peaked, magnetically drawn to Harry. 

It swung its clawed hand. James attacked from behind, driving the butt of his shotgun into its head. Its weight bowed under the force, but she _ (it!) _ was not thrown to the ground despite her violent convulsions. Now her vengeance was on James, and she whirled to strike him, her voice shrieking so high he recoiled in pain. 

There were no nails on her black fingers. When her hand connected with James’s face he yelped and staggered to the side. James cradled his cheek in his hand, obscuring the damage from Harry’s view. Later he’d come to find out that he was scraped as though he had a brush with sandpaper, and James had forgotten about it altogether.

Though Harry’s head was ringing and pounding, the adrenaline was kicking in. He took the advantage and heaved the pipe into her ribs, flinging her to the asphalt. It broke her horrible radio howl, and when Harry made to keep her down under his weapon, he too fell to the hard ground.

A squirming figure had bowled between his legs and forced him to collapse. He gasped and painfully threw his body onto his back, and was confronted by the thing that had tripped him. It was a figure that was faceless and armless, hooded by disgusting pale skin that stretched over its shoulders and bound its arms to its filthy chest. The legs were spread and bent like a frog, propelling its unnatural skittering across the road on its belly. Harry couldn’t waste time studying it. He scrambled to his feet and quickly withdrew from the girl wreathed in black, whose recovery coincided with his.

He heard the shotgun go off behind him. The squirming creature crunched and grunted inhumanly in pain. Harry bobbed the pipe in his grip like a batter ready for the pitch, and with it smacked the girl’s arms away from their reach. 

She was angry, and quick. She lunged at Harry, her mimicry mixing with the radio’s yowling and clawed at his jacket. He guarded his face with his arm and tried to push her off him, but she was a torrent, and surprisingly heavy. “James!” he shouted through the racket. “Get her off!”

He struggled with her. She smelled like industrial fumes and her body was boiling hot; he thought she’d burn him through his clothes. Her sound threatened to burst his eardrums, and when he managed to strike her again, another voice wailed amongst her static. 

Harry clobbered her again and again. He beat at her until a bullet went off and she shrilled in pain, and her flailing ceased. In her crackling he thought he heard a woman’s voice - a real woman - sobbing in agony. James flew in front of Harry to drive his gun twice into her head, assuring that she’d be flung to the ground again. Harry took over this time and brutally beat the inky, disgusting, caterwauling figure with every ounce of his pent up and wrathful energy. 

He didn’t notice that James had made a retreat. The creatures barked their pain as the shotgun’s cock and blast resonated in his ears along with the sickening crunch of bones and meat mashing together. His bloody pipe, flecked with gore, whaled on his target as the radio in his pocket wildly tuned. The imitation’s electricity burst, and it died. In its fading gurgles the woman within it was anguished and begging for mercy, though her words were incoherent.

Lifeless, it laid in a gross puddle of its death. Harry’s chest heaved from exertion and he turned to aid James. Two of those crawling bodies were dead in the tracks of blood they slithered in, their heads caved in from the heel of James’s boot.

There was one left that was chasing James as he was backing away from it, hastily trying to reload shells into his gun. Harry advanced and delivered a blow to its stitched spine. It cried out, and so Harry pummeled it again, and again and again as it tried to twist to attack him. Harry instead leapt to straddle the creature between his feet, and brought his pipe down on its head until it stopped moving.

The radio switched off. Harry wearily disengaged from the corpse and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. James, too, was struggling to catch his breath, but Harry wasn’t looking at him yet. He was staring at the creature, now finding the time to examine it. His nose wrinkled with disgusted confusion. The thing was rather sexual: a dirty thong was hitched over its bony hips and tightly wedged in its leathery ass. The legs, as he’d noted before, were spread in a vulgar position that would be tantalizing in a different situation, but made him feel uncomfortable and humiliated for it. His eyes moved to its feet. They appeared bound and welded to platform boots that would give it at least six inches advantage if it had been standing.

Overall this thing was straight out of a BDSM fantasy, he thought, and its placement here revolted him.

“Jeez. I ask where the monsters are, and my wishes are finally granted. Next time I ask for it, tell me to shut up.”

“Roger that,” James lightly trembled.

“Have you seen this one before?” Harry asked, nudging the boot made of skin.

“Yeah. That’s one of mine. The, uh, the ones that are around here.”

“One of yours? Yikes. What does that mean?”

He looked up at James. His companion was shivering in the stilted way that one tries to keep it controlled. Concern overwrote Harry’s face and focus, and he sidestepped the corpse to approach James.

In it, he discovered that James was wet. From head to toe he was drenched, his hair darkened to brown and his clothes wrinkled and stuck to him. He stood in a sizable puddle of cloudy water that reminded him of the lake. Harry’s lips parted, alarmed by this and the trickles that ran down his pale, forlorn face, and dripped from his hands.

“James.. what the hell?” he asked tentatively. “Are you okay?”

“So, that was fun, huh?” James remarked through a voice stiff from a chill that wasn’t shared. Harry stared disbelievingly at him.

“Yeah, it was a great time, I’d love to do it again. James, seriously, are you okay? What’s going on, you’re completely drenched.”

“I’ve never seen that one before,” he continued, ignoring Harry’s concern. “I have no idea what that is.”

Harry gave a soft whine of exasperation. “James, please, in all seriousness,” he begged softly, “what is _ happening _ to you? _ Are you okay? _”

He was met with a stretch of silence. James’s eyes found Harry’s. The guilt and hollow sadness that surrounded this poor, shaking young man seeped once more into his heart. He was sorry to have asked. He pitied James the way that this forsaken resident pitied himself. It reminded him that he’d promised he wouldn’t ask questions, and how very serious that promise was supposed to be. James was a black hole of suffering and tragedy. When Harry looked into his eyes, he saw a man who was weak, and was his only misbegotten hope of getting out of Silent Hill.

“So,” Harry trailed lamely, pressured to forget his worry and averting his eyes to the aftermath of their attack, “since we’re not getting out of town any time soon, I guess we’ll have to hang around.” When he didn’t get a reply, he forced himself to fix his eyes on James’s face. “You know this town better than anyone will. You up for giving me an actual tour of the neighborhood?”

James’s face mysteriously, and slowly, began to dry. The phenomenon was baffling, but occurring right before his eyes. Harry tried not to let his shock show, and whether James saw it or cared, he wouldn’t know.

“Yeah. I can take you around. It’s better that you get a feel for the place,” he agreed. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Harry echoed, and fell into step beside James. He ignored the wet squelch the leather shoes made in their stride. He’d have to learn to stop worrying about a man that refused to care, and rejected his want for understanding. Harry was here for his daughter, and her alone. He’d better learn to disconnect from James fast, or else be sucked into the depressing, toxic, harmful drain that controlled him. 

Harry wasn’t sure how he was going to do that, for he was a man of compassion and empathy; a caretaker. He didn’t know how to be cold, and felt a deep and terrible need to help a helpless man. Harry was plagued by it. How could he brush it all off and pretend that there was nothing wrong with James? It ate at him. Everything about James baffled him. He was shut off and cautious, and yet, Harry saw the tiniest reaches between the cracks in his wretched armor. No other man he knew was so unsettling and complicated to deal with. He was infested with the town’s sickness, and Harry solemnly suspected there wasn’t a cure. The bizarre watering shook him the most. James could play dumb all he liked, but Harry couldn’t let that go forever. 

But taking another look at the man who was pathetically buried in himself and whose lips were blue from a frigid air Harry couldn’t feel, he felt ashamed to know he’d have to do it. His life depended on it. _ Heather _ depended on it.

She was more important than a cursed man that haunted Silent Hill.

He just had to keep reminding himself that.


	11. The Pocket Travel Guide to Silent Hill

Though Harry had gotten a modest taste of South Vale, there was much more to see. James led him languidly down its streets, offering little commentary, if at all. Harry was still shaken from their chases and battles, thus didn’t have much to say, either. He took in the desolate town with distracted interest. It would look cozy if it hadn’t been bathed in fog and fear, and as he raised his eyes to the blanketed sky, he recalled that it had been snowing when he first visited Old Silent Hill. Oddly, it hadn’t been cold enough for it, and the season wasn’t appropriate (being late summer at the time). He supposed it didn’t touch this section of the depraved town, and he was chagrined that he missed it.

The snowfall was calmer. The fog here was more sinister. Harry tried to visualize what South Vale would look like if it was gifted with snow, and decided that it would honestly improve the dour setting. 

The neighborhood wasn’t very big. The map of it showed a modest community and it took not much more than an hour, Harry gauged, to see what there was to see. James took him along every street: the ones that dead ended, the many that bore ruin and abandonment, and the few that were streaked in crimson. There were a few bloody human corpses tucked into corners and laid out on the road. They weren’t a cause for concern. Their display was like a town council-approved ornament to bolster the atmosphere.

James spoke only to mention if a blockade had gone missing. It appeared that Silent Hill had struck its walls and ended construction for the most part, only leaving up the striped wooden fences as an afterthought. There were some walls left of canvas tarp that cut off the remainder of a few streets. They came upon one that bore blood-painted words (_The door that wakes in darkness, opening into nightmares_.) that Harry tried to translate into something he could understand. James was familiar with it to the point of boredom. Harry had enough sense to not to inquire after its meaning.

They passed the bar that was closed down, and saw every apartment complex there was to see. 

The sigil still marked the road in front of the Wood Side Apartments. They gathered warily at its border, studying its runes and intentional arrangements, but they wouldn’t be able to hang around for long. Its presence made their heads throb and ache with pins, crushing their skulls and pushing them away from it. _ Don’t get so close _ , it seemed to warn. _ I’m not for you, but you need to see me. _

When the cruise brought them around to their starting point at the leftovers of their massacre, Harry decided it was the right time to ask James how he was. The question directly referred to the scrape that marred his cheek, and James ignored its deeper intentions.

“It’s fine,” he told him.

“Was that from the fight?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

And that was that.

The initial tour allowed Harry to get a vague idea of the layout. Over the next handful of days he became much more accustomed to it, and no longer needed the map to guide him. He was mostly accompanied by James on his walks about town, though despite the danger that loomed, he made some of his outings alone.

What James was doing while Harry tried to find solace in the muffled, lonely world he was trapped in, he didn’t know. He was likely sitting and simply waiting for him to return, doing nothing at all. That seemed the most plausible to him. 

In fact, that was exactly what he was doing.

James had given Harry the base knowledge of the town and that was all he cared to give at that point. The businesses that he’d formerly been able to access were hopefully locked to Harry’s curiosity. He was fine - relieved, really - that Harry wanted to take time to himself. They needed more space from each other. 

It was hard for James to be close to a person so full of life. Harry drained him in a way much like James drained Harry. He didn’t know that his presence wore Harry down; he only assumed that he was the one experiencing the exhaustion. Their temporary separations gave them both time to recharge and breathe, and the men appreciated the agreement. 

James was comfortable in the easy chair. Today they took refuge in an apartment belonging to the previously shuttered Nightingale building. The room was normal in its filth and surprisingly plush in contrast to the other spaces they visited. Being on the far south side of town near the industrial area would have held other expectations. This was nice for a one bedroom, and James would have liked to appreciate it more.

It had been seven days since their runaround on Nathan Avenue and the appearance of monsters he couldn’t comprehend. In those seven days they had sporadic encounters with demons that James knew intimately, and the ones that were a new product of fear. He wondered about them. Being tied to Silent Hill for so long had given him enough familiarity of the fiends that roamed with him to unveil their significance. Each of them represented a part of him that brought guilt and shame as tormenting souvenirs of his past. They’d never stopped taunting him. He was forced to face the worst parts of himself for years, digging harder into his psyche and filling his coffin with nails.

_ What did you mean when you said, ‘this one is mine’? Harry asked him. _

_ James gave him a warning glance, but his challenge lasted a short few seconds. It was in the name of survival to clue Harry in to one of the secrets of Silent Hill. It was for his own good that he be prepared, so he spoke. _

_ I meant that it’s not one of yours. These monsters have meaning. They come from a part of you; memories, fears.. things you’ve done. They represent you. Whatever those new ones are, they come from you. _

_ Harry knew better than to ask what the others meant to James. _

James wrinkled his brow and frowned at the ground. Now that was a terrible thing to speculate on. How long would it take for the Red Pyramid Thing to make its stand? 

As it turned out, he didn’t kill that massive butcher. It continued to hunt and ridicule him at its excruciatingly lethargic pace. How could it still be alive, and how many were there? He didn’t know what it was or what it meant. It bothered him that the Red Pyramid Thing had been his great mystery, a code he couldn’t crack. Silent Hill let him play a guessing game until one night, they were face to face, the great rusted knife at its still drag by the abomination’s side, and James pointing an empty shotgun at its bloodstained chest. 

James sneered at the ground and violently shook his head. He wasn’t going to entertain that memory. He kicked it away. There were important riddles he was working on before all that rolled back into the picture. James forcibly re-centered himself and yanked the conundrum of the new monsters back to the forefront. 

There were the crying, burning women, and the creature made of static and fumes. The former were forever smoldering, blighted by singed holes in their baked flesh, and dripped black, acidic ichor. Some were bald, their scalps incinerated, and others had long black hair that was both wet and decorated with kindling flames. When they staggered, their faces were obscured by the way their heads hung on broken necks, and when dead, Harry and James rolled them over to unearth the fact that their eyes were blinded by melted skin and their mouths silenced by a red square made of steel. How their screams were audible from behind the plates, they didn’t know. Their bodies reeked of gasoline and scorched wood. 

The women were revolting, and Harry was once made sick by their stink. They vaguely nauseated James, but not for the way they smelled. He couldn’t place why they unsettled his stomach and thickened his throat. From then on Harry was determined to kill them off first and get a distance between them and any other monster before continuing the slaughter. Unintentionally, this turned out to be a good tactic. It allowed the men to beckon and flank creatures, particularly a group of three or more, and pick them off more effectively. 

These rancid, charred women were attracted to them both, though they tended to favor Harry. The inky creature that exhumed fumes and duplicated the radio’s staccato ignored James until he attacked it. Annoyance seemed to make it clash harder with him.

This told James that these two variants were not meant exclusively for him. Despite that, they had a mean card to play against him, and they used it carefully. He sank further into his seat, recounting how the monsters wept and wailed. Their voices were a cacophony of several feminine cries tangled together to make them an indiscernible mess. He wanted to believe it was his own damaged psyche, but he strongly presumed it to be one of Silent Hill’s schemes that in those voices, he swore he heard Mary.

The first real introduction of the burning women on their journey down Nathan Avenue had struck him dead cold. Harry didn’t hear it, or else he’d’ve started in with those goddamn questions when they stopped running. James heard it too clearly. He heard her. Through the gunk and the moaning he heard her call to him. It wasn’t all of them - just one. His name came as a mix of a sigh and a sob, so soft, and so clear. That’s why he had to grab Harry and run for his life.

He wasn’t about to let Harry meet her.

James rubbed his face with both hands. She was even present in the static thing. He couldn’t recall if he detected her on its first appearance, but every one after that he had. Again, Harry didn’t seem to hear it. He came to the wary conclusion that he couldn’t, and that her voice was meant for his ears alone. 

It was a dirty trick for Silent Hill to play on him, and James wasn’t in the least surprised. 

He dropped his hands to his lap and sighed deeply, tipping his head back to meet the cushion supporting his back. God. He was so tired. The tiredness was the result of Harry’s life force, as he’d already concluded. He was feeling a little better now that he was gone for an hour (so he wagered). James couldn’t stand, nor understand why, Harry’s energy took so much out of him. Because of him, he sank harder into his depression and disregard for his own safety. Harry made him want to find a flooded basement to lie in and be forgotten. He made James feel guilty for breathing, for moving, for speaking, for being found.

James revolted himself. He couldn’t stand the feel of his own arms brushing his sides when he walked, the feel of his thighs meeting his calves when he kneeled, seeing his own hands when he reached. The rare times he caught a glimpse of himself in a reflection had him lowering his eyes in immeasurable shame. When he sat with Harry he made sure to distance his limbs in a way that they wouldn’t touch the rest of him, and still make him look normal. 

It was pitifully embarrassing how much James felt sorry for himself. That alone made his wallowing cycle spin itself ‘round again, and there was no end to it. He’d learned to file it into the back of his mind so it wasn’t so loud and distracting, allowing his head to be more empty. With Harry around, it was thunderous, and refused to be shut away in its box. James’s robotic functioning took a hit because of this. He was slower to respond, more difficult to keep track of, more sluggish in battle. It concerned and bothered Harry since James had made himself more of a liability, and this was part of the reason why he proposed the idea to have time apart. 

The seven long days did give them more time to adjust to one another. James made a terrible conversation partner, and Harry had noticed that the banter they’d had the first day had dwindled considerably. It put him in an awkward, disheartened mood and ever to his personality, he endeavored to alleviate the tension as much as he could. 

James tried to participate. He’d never been much of a talker, but Mary hadn’t minded that. She called him a good listener. That was what she needed in a person, but Harry was her opposite. He wanted a chatterbox. Harry seemed to hate stretches of silence and felt compelled to fill them with talking. He liked learning about people, he said, because everyone is different and they have different things to say.

Surprisingly, Harry also liked to listen. _ I’m more of a listener than a talker, if you can believe that, _ he’d laughed to James’s disbelief. _ I mean, I prefer to listen. I just.. talk when I’m nervous or it’s too quiet. I hope it doesn’t bother you too much. _

Sometimes it did. James found it grating. Every now and then Harry’s one-sided gabbing made James’s chest twist in irritation and his clenched jaw barricade his need to scream ** _SHUT UP, SHUT THE HELL UP_ ** safely away. When these urges were at their strongest, James suggested as cooly as he could manage that he’d like to take a walk. He often left without waiting for Harry to reply, and so he wouldn’t see the light strain of hurt on his aged face.

_ No, it’s fine_, James had lied. _ I’m a listener too. _

In his solitude, James’s expression softened. Their days together felt like a really long time. During them he learned that Harry was a writer. He wrote fiction. Prior to Silent Hill, he focused on light adventure plots, dabbled in sci-fi, and had an idea for a series about a man and the butterfly effects that led him on a wild ride through his life. After he came home, he somberly told James, he had a harder time focusing on those things. It took him a couple years to get writing again and when he did, he was coping by writing thrillers and true crime.

When Heather was turning ten and learning to enjoy reading, Harry tried his hand at a young adult book. Harry laughed when he tried to explain how daunting and ridiculously hard it was for him to switch gears. A few times he had to stop himself because he realized that he was _ not _ writing the same story anymore. Nevertheless, he cranked out a novel about a girl with a garden of plants that she could climb and talk to. The plants didn’t have voices per say, Harry noted, serving more like emotional guidance. These plants relied on the girl to keep them healthy and in return they granted her access to a new and beautiful world. If she neglected them, they showed her a place that was slowly dying.

“Okay, so maybe it got a little dark for a young adult book,” Harry admitted sheepishly. “But the moral of the story was to keep yourself and things around you healthy oh and also, save the environment. So.. I _ kinda _ got it right.”

“Did Heather like it?”

“Yeah, she did. But she acted like she thought it was ‘just okay’,” he emphasized with quotation fingers, “because her _ dad _ wrote it for her.”

“So you put a dedication in the front of the book, huh.”

“Of course! I wasn’t going to _ not _ embarrass her.”

Harry sounded like a great father. James tried not to be sullen about it. This was a man who adored his daughter with every living thread of his being. She was his world and his meaning, and he’d give her everything he could and more. James imagined that he didn’t spoil Heather (too much) and taught her her manners and her humility. She would grow up to be down to earth and compassionate, kind to others, and perhaps volunteering for an organization or two on the odd weekend. Harry seemed like the kind of father that would assert that thinking on his child, undoubtedly by the way of demonstration.

James gathered this in the things Harry told him about Heather. He described Heather’s first day in middle school. One year, she was a Power Ranger for Halloween. James heard about how cute she was when she wanted to try gymnastics, and how excited she always got when Harry took her to Wendy’s for a chocolate frosty after practice. He learned that her favorite color is orange and that she hates it when Harry makes up words to her favorite songs while driving with the radio on. Harry was proud of her winning second place in the middle school spelling bee, and was already getting empty nest syndrome because Heather was about to graduate high school.

“Of course not. You’d never waste that opportunity.”

“Every chance I get is a chance worth taking.”

Yeah. Harry was the kind of father that James would have liked to be. 

Once upon a time, James had a little affair with the idea of being a father. It was shortly before they took their trip to Silent Hill. He and Mary were still in the debating stages of the whole thing, but it was definitely headed in the direction of parenthood. 

They were lucky that she didn’t get pregnant on their vacation, for the years of testing their vows of ‘in sickness or in health’ were on the horizon.

He and Harry spent their nights together. Monsters trudged the halls, infuriated that the two of them refused to engage. Abominations bumped into the walls, the siren screamed, and the radio made a racket. Something imperceptible often rattled the doorknob so they took to propping chairs or cabinets against the door, and Harry had gotten used to the little girl that cried for him on the other side. The upswing of activity didn’t mean they were hounded all night. They had relatively long periods of silence between the monsters rummaging around outside. There was plenty of quiet to go around.

Cabin fever was still a little problem. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to go wandering knowing what was waiting for him, and though James didn’t have any personal reservations on it, he chose to stay for Harry’s comfort. _ I can’t let you go out there alone, _ he’d said so sincerely, while the siren called for their attention. _ You know it gets worse at night, and it’s bad enough holed up in here. Please, James. _

That was more of a reason to find a safe room with a lot of space. They spent some time sitting together, Harry trying to spark a conversation and James mostly giving zero effort to contribute. If there were books, Harry picked the least damaged and reclined on the couch and read. James watched him read, or would get up to patrol the apartment, likely ending up in the other room to sit by himself.

What James never caught was Harry’s head lifting to watch him pace out of the corners of his eyes, or how they followed his back when he left him alone. 

On the sixth day, the morning had arrived as normal. James didn’t sleep, because he never did. Harry tried to sleep, and it never came. As their system had established, they eventually drifted apart halfway through the night, offering an unspoken farewell until morning.

James got the bed. He rose from the musty covers and went to greet Harry.


	12. The Little Place Down the Street

What he found was that there was not much left of Harry to greet. A great icy knife skewered his heart and stole his breath when he laid eyes upon the pulverized remains of Harry Mason. His body lay where he left him on the couch, his arm hung lifelessly off the side, where thickening blood paved streams down his hand and collected at his fingertips, dropping red beads into its self-made lake. James threw his hand to the doorway to help support his weakening knees.

Something had come silently in the night and beat on the innocent man so badly that his face was reduced to a meaty slurry. The couch was covered in his viscera and bone. His chest was concave and his clothes were soaked nearly to his shoes. The walls and drapes were splattered like modern art, made from his organic pulp. Harry had been brutalized, and as it appeared, done so completely off guard. The book he had been reading lay by his side on the floor, tented and ruined, keeping the place he had left off.

The murder was degrading for a man like him.

James’s rotten gut wrung harder than ever. A knee gave out, the doorway caught his shoulder and he struggled to keep his weight up on his other leg. _ How could he have not heard it? _ James hadn’t wanted him here and he needed to get him out, but not like this, god dammit how could he have fucked up so badly, failed to help him, been so callous and cold and cowardly and self absorbed to give him even a _ moment _ of his time. 

He swallowed hard and dropped his head in humiliation. He knew this would happen. Harry was led into a trap. He would never find his daughter. James had been his guide, and headed the path to his death. The town gave him enough time to feel a crumb of hope for Harry, perhaps even the first nibble of enjoyment he’d gotten since he arrived all those years ago. Harry tried to befriend him. James couldn’t allow it for he knew, in the back of his mind, that this result was too high of a risk for him to feel any attachment.

James couldn’t feel attached. He was lonely and damned. Harry was noble and pure-hearted. He had no business wandering into South Vale, and James rued the town for orchestrating their encounter. The cold began to bloom on his shoulders and creep up to the top of his skull, and spread down his back. Harry was just a plaything to amplify James’s suffering. He was destined for failure. Silent Hill would gloat until the world died. 

The burden of his incompetence began to force James to the floor. It was over. His limbs were as useless as a ragdoll’s. It was Maria all over again. If he couldn’t save her, why would he be able to save Harry? Perhaps Harry was spared the torture, unlike her. Maria had been flayed, ripped apart, and oh how her screams filled his ears. He’d heard nothing all night. It was designed that way. Silent Hill crafted a personalized present and cleverly wrapped it up all nice for him to discover like it was Christmas morning.

He deserved this. The blame was laid entirely at his feet, and this sentence was just. 

James’s head was heavy. His body was too weak. The cold was freezing him from the inside as he began to fold on himself and the water poured, god, how the water poured—

— and James was shaken so hard that he had the first case of whiplash in over a decade. 

“James!” Harry shouted in his face, his hands so tight on his arms he’d be sore for the rest of the day. “Hey! Hey,” he said hurriedly, his voice sliding into a distressed hush. “Hey, it’s okay. C’mon man, you alright? James,” he said soothingly, disorienting James in its tenderness, “talk to me, buddy.”

Harry was shifting his deadweighted body to prop him up on the threshold. James’s neck remembered how to hold his head, and it thudded gently on the paneling. He stared numbly up at a man so shaken and distraught that the wash of guilt infected his entire body to the marrows. Smothered emotions paralyzed and separated him from his physical form, but he had enough cognizance to recognize that his waterfall had been a hallucination.

A hallucination. 

Contempt rose to his head. Harry was alive and well, save for his panic, and had not a scratch on him. This was one of the cruelest pranks in the world, James thought hatefully as he barely registered Harry’s hand running through his hair, or the brush of his thumb on his cold forehead. He stared hollowly into Harry’s face. Brown eyes were prematurely red under the threat of frightened tears, with the symbols of age folding at the corners and his teeth grit with fear. The paternal nature coaxed James out of his disassociation. It made him feel sorry that he was so dead to Harry’s anguish.

“James,” Harry pleaded quite literally on his knees, his hands now cradling the resident’s neck. “Can you talk to me? Please? Say something? You’re scaring me, buddy. You’re really scaring me and I don’t know what to do here.”

Harry looked so relieved when the younger man took a shallow breath. The sincerity of his compassion severed any emotional response from the one who sat broken on the floor. His tongue searched for words in his mouth while Harry waited too hopefully than James cared for.

“I’m okay.”

Harry looked betrayed that he would lie so boldly to his face. He didn’t expect the blond to answer truthfully, but it didn’t wound him any less. James felt his warm thumbs on his jaw, gently petting his skin in a simple effort to calm them both.

James didn’t attribute regaining himself from the void of disassociation to his touch, though it truly did help. His eyelids fluttered, and he sighed, then brought his weighted eyes to Harry’s. “I’m sorry. I just got really lightheaded. I dunno why, it just hit me out of the blue.”

More lies, but Harry appeared to accept this one at face value. “Yeah? You scared the bejeezus out of me, man,” he tried to joke under a weak chuckle. “You looked like you saw a ghost and then tanked out of nowhere. Whew,” he exhaled, his hands thumping on James’s shoulders as he sat back on his feet. “Well, good morning!” Harry laughed, already sounding lighter and more like himself. “That was more jolting than a hot cup of coffee! How about some bacon and eggs from the little place down the street?”

James would’ve smiled if he could muster it. Harry clapped James’s shoulders twice more and rocked back onto his feet, gripping his knees for leverage as he slowly, and painfully groaning, got up. He sounded like Frank whenever he’d get up. It didn’t matter if it was from easy chair or from a bar stool, he always moaned and strained and it made James roll his eyes at the drama of it.

While he was still grounded and waited for his body to remember how to work its limbs, he watched Harry stretch and go to pick up his book. It was placed on the misaligned shelf where James couldn’t see it against the wall behind him, and heard his feet shuffle as he tried to figure out what to do with himself until the man in green recovered. James closed his eyes and sucked in a slow breath and willed his muscles into functioning.

He stood as achingly as Harry had, without the melodrama, and took an extra moment to lean on the threshold to steady his trembling legs. A light headed feeling washed over, but not from the sudden rush of blood that affected most people. It came from the emotional exertion of that whole ordeal now that he could move again. 

James pushed off the doorway. He tugged on his jacket, aligning it to his comfort, and stepped into the living room. The men looked at each other, Harry doing his best to trap the fret from showing on his face, and James doing nothing to shield his angst and misery.

Harry lowered his eyes first. That was James’s cue to pick up his weapons make for the door, and lead a mentally fatigued father down to the street.

After a minute of walking, Harry fully caught up to James and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. The latter guessed that he had conquered his determination to find normalcy again, because the older man gave an animated sigh.

“Welp,” he started, wiggling his shoulders as he dug his fists deep into his jacket, “Where’re we gonna find a good place to eat around here?”

James wished he knew. Being in Silent Hill negated their need to eat or drink. In the middle of the third day, Harry chucked the cans out the window, making a game of trying to hit a passing monster. He discovered more quickly that he would not have to face the horrors of the bathrooms either, since the town checked off that need too. When he made light conversation about the convenience of it, James mentioned that Harry also wouldn’t have to shave, as hair didn’t grow. Time stopped two essential bodily needs and one of vanity. 

_ I should’ve known, Harry shrugged at the time. _

_ Why? _

_ I don’t really see you finding a mirror and giving yourself a haircut. _

Perhaps James would have taken some minor offense to that years ago, but now he had to agree with him.

As predicted, there was no immediate answer to Harry’s question. James heard him sniff and hum contemplatively to himself, his leather jacket squeaking as he strolled along.

“Ooh, I know!” Harry exclaimed, jarring James ever so slightly. “How about the strip club?”

James’s face contorted with undertones of disgust, shooting a glance at his grinning companion. _ “What?” _

“Oh come on, you’re kidding me! Didn’t you know they served breakfast buffets?”

Baffled, James shook his head and gave Harry a truly skeptical look. _ “No? _ Why would they serve _ breakfast? _”

Harry scoffed impishly. “C’maaahn, they open at nine or ten and the regulars come shuffling in for free food, their first paying drink of the day, and a couple of girls to look at. It’s a gimmick to hustle people in early in the morning.”

James was aghast. What in the hell had he been missing on the outside? He hadn’t really been one to make the occasional trip to the nudie bar. In fact, he had to be strongarmed into one for his bachelor party by Mary’s cousins and the one friend he had, and he spent a large portion of the time blushing furiously and refusing to even look at any dancer. Even after downing five cocktails that would exact their revenge in the morning, he was too sloshed to have improvements towards his willingness to enjoy the exotic scenery.

Eddie probably would have been the type of patron to have a punch card with the temptation of rewards at a place like that.

Harry’s niche knowledge immediately changed James’s assumptions about how pure he actually was. “How do you know _ that? _” he asked the mischievous smirk. “What were you, a frequent flier?”

“Nah. I once went to one to meet a shady agent,” Harry shrugged. “I knew the moment he suggested a strip club for breakfast that there was no way he was going to get my business representing me, but I was too curious _ not _ to say no.”

James must’ve looked dubious, because Harry veered to playfully nudge his elbow into his arm. “I promise I’m not that kind of guy. It was probably my third time in any strip club because I was dragged there by other guys. Craig turned twenty-one, Benny was getting married,” he drawled, tipping his head side to side as he rattled off the short list, “Stuart got a divorce— oh, okay. Four times, including the most informative meeting I’ve ever had with an agent.”

“Remarkable.” 

It was arguably stupid that Harry getting his jollies at a strip club would affect his feelings towards him. Not that James was any moral paragon himself, but he did skew on the conservative side when it came to lustful pursuits. His concern was short-lived.

James was able to feel a brush of humor about the situation. He’d gone four days since their introduction without much of it to give, and after the rocky start this morning, they both needed a splash of amusement.

He hadn’t stepped into Heaven’s Night since his initial trip with Maria. After all, he wasn’t so keen on wandering back inside considering all he went through with her, though maybe Harry could help set a different tone for the place. Self-imposed indignity and stigma had attached itself to the deserted bar. James was making a huge effort regarding the icy, uphill battle towards feeling human.

That was too high a hill to climb right then, so he didn’t. He accompanied Harry through the streets, only once having to hurry to avoid a passing abomination. 

Their arrival was welcomed by neon lights that never went out. For a very long time, James avoided Carroll Street altogether. It bore tarnished hopes and disgraced memories. Maria _ hated _ bowling, and James couldn’t think about pizza without getting a little nauseated. The alleys reminded him of Laura’s escape through their narrow halls that led the fated travelers to Heaven’s Night, where the implications of Maria’s past draped him in regret and embarrassment.

James lingered at the mouth of the alley that ended at the door to Heaven’s Night. He felt cold with uncertainty. Harry had already taken lead, large strides turning into light steps as he skipped up the metal stairs. If he had any luck, James hoped, knowing he was surely not to, the door would be securely locked along with the side entrance. Of course, this was too wrenching for James to relive, so Silent Hill granted, to the writer’s delight, total access. 

“Hey, whaddya know!” he grinned back at James, who still avoiding the boundary between the sidewalk and the alley. “We’re not too early.” 

When James neglected to move, Harry’s shoulders dropped with a sigh and he stared flatly down at hm. “James, humor me for once,” he gently scolded. “It’s not gonna bite you. Something _ inside _ might,” he added, correcting himself, “but the place itself is fine.” When James continued to hesitate, he tried one more tactic. “I promise I won’t tell your wife.”

Well, that made his heart skip too many beats. Mary had heard all about the trip to the skin club and she tried to laugh it off and call those boys scoundrels, but James had seen the disdain on her face. She had avoided his eyes for the rest of the day, nailing dishonor to his chest. The hangover he nursed also distanced her from him, and they’d had a minor fight about her jealousy before bed. 

_ I swear, nothing _ ** _happened! _ ** _ I didn’t even want to _ ** _be _ ** _ there! Peter dragged me, literally _ ** _dragged me_ ** _ in. I didn’t want to go at all. _

_ Well, did you at least enjoy getting your last look of seeing other naked women much prettier than me before you get tied down by marriage? _

_ There are no other women prettier than you, Mary. You’re the only woman I want. I’d never cheat on you. _

_ Isn’t this already cheating? You could have tried harder not to go. _

_ Mary, honey.. _

_ Really, I hope you had fun with one of your last nights as a free man. Why should I be so upset? That’s just what guys do for their bachelor parties. _

_ I’m not single. I’m engaged. To you. You’re my one and only. You’re the one that I want. _

_ Whatever, James. Let’s just forget it. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. _

James shifted his weight uncomfortably. The past was the past. Mary wasn’t around to care about him willingly strolling into a den of iniquity. Even when Maria told him they had to cut through to follow Laura, he felt he was pressured into it in the name of a little girl’s survival. He didn’t dwell so much on it at the time, though standing here now, he had much more free will to make a choice. 

Or so he thought. If he didn’t give in, he’d disappoint Harry over such a small attempt at getting some amusement out of the rotten town and simultaneously clear the heavy air over what happened that morning. He stepped forward and walked the one-way path to the open door, and Harry’s relieved smile. James opted to believe that he was doing this on his own accord, though he was just bending to others’ wishes again. 

“Attaboy,” Harry praised him, clapping him on the back as James passed by. The door shut with a clang that startled them both. Inside, the club was cramped even with its sparse table arrangement and booths lined up at the opposite wall. The men hugged the wall at the door, getting a full view of the place. It was drab and dark, the best light coming from the outstandingly bright neon signs that hung behind and around them. None were enough to reach the shadows in the far corners by the stage, giving the establishment a lonely feeling that was a leftover from its glory days. Even without the infernal touch of Silent Hill, it probably had always looked like this. 

Harry strode to the bar. He set down his trusty pipe and leaned into the tall counter, laying his arm on its foul surface. 

“Yeah, uhh, can I get a Samuel Adams?” he asked an invisible bartender. “How about you, bud?” He looked over at James, illuminated in a halo of magenta. There was a softness that paused the playfulness on Harry’s face, which James erroneously took for sadness. James worked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, trying to gather the desire to go along with the game.

He wracked his brain for the name of a beer he used to know. James hadn’t even considered a drink after he was forced into sobriety by the town. Vague remembrance of his brush with alcoholism tingled his brain. That was forever ago. 

“Uh.. it’s been awhile,” James answered. “I guess I’ll take a vodka tonic.”

“On the rocks?”

“Neat.”

“So a Samuel Adams and a vodka tonic,” Harry relayed to the empty bar. While he waited for drinks that’d never come, he tilted his head at James in amusement. “Vodka tonic, huh? Not a beer guy, I take it.”

“Not really. I couldn’t get past the aftertaste.”

“So you like the burn, huh?”

Yeah. He really liked the burn and the warmth that relaxed his whole body and took his mind away from all the problems in the world. “It was alright. I dunno, I preferred the taste and the bite more than any beer I’ve tried.”

Harry chuckled and drummed his fingers. “I couldn’t really get into the hard stuff. Maybe once in a while on a blue moon I’d have a little brandy, but that shit made me cough the first few sips.”

James smiled faintly. “Yeah, it’ll do that to ya.”

Harry looked back at the well-stocked collection of bottles and overturned glasses tucked into the dusty cubbies. “Man! The service here sucks. They’re definitely going to get a one star rating on Yelp. This place is a total bust.”

Confusion scrunched James’s face. “Yelp?”

He got a delayed response, and it wasn’t an explanation on whatever Yelp was. Harry struck his hand on the counter and huffed. “Ghost town! Dammit, I should’ve said ghost town. Oh, that was a wasted opportunity.”

James held a look of uncertainty. Harry reminded him of his father the more he made jokes that would make a middle aged man proud. He turned his wrinkled face to the floor and lightly shook his head. Every now and then, Harry gave him serious second hand embarrassment.

He lifted his head when he heard the bar’s hinged door creak open. Harry ventured behind it and inspected the fading names on tinted labels, and lifted a couple off the shelf to experimentally give them a shake. “Aw, shucks.” He replaced them and tried a few more, getting the same result each time. “Someone came in here and cleaned them out. Was it you?”

Dear god, James wanted it to be him. “No sir,” he said. 

“Maybe our friends out there did it, then. It’d explain why they stagger around like drunks.”

Harry stepped out and closed the slab door. James watched him pick up his pipe and swing it loosely at his side then meander to a table, where it was set down again. “Well, we’re too late for breakfast, and the bartender’s out to lunch. What’re our chances of seeing a dance or two?”

The chair skipped on the linoleum as Harry drew it from the table and took a seat. He leaned back and stretched a leg out, sliding his hands back into the leather pockets. James sighed, overcome with exhaustion. He approached as he was silently asked to, and laid his shotgun beside the bloodied, rusted pipe. 

Harry smiled at him as James pulled out a chair for himself and slowly sat down. His posture was stiff in contrast to Harry’s due to the uneasiness he felt being in this place. James set his hands on his knees and directed his stare at the edge of the table, too embarrassed to look at the stage.

Clouded in his own miserable thoughts, he didn’t notice the tender worry on Harry’s face. He also misread the aura that came off his charge; relaxation and concern were wrongly taken as awkward friction. James wasn’t very good at distinguishing his projections onto people from the truth of the matter. Because of this, the men sat in the stuffy quiet of the club, and waited for each other to say something.

The lapse gave James time to disconnect from his surroundings and replay the gruesome trick from before. True terrors and unfathomable sadness always triggered the water to emerge, the past week being the most he’d had in a very long time. The act of it erred on the side of frustrated annoyance, and even though it probably only happened a meager handful of times in the first two days, it seemed a lot more to James.

So it bugged him that intensity of the water was all a part of the hallucination, as the severity of the scene should have left him so drenched that the lakewater would have reached across the floor. It _ shouldn’t _ have been an illusion. James couldn’t control whether it happened or not, though this time, its absence filled him with trepidation. 

If there was a reason why he was barred from understanding it, James wasn’t sure how committed he was to figuring it out right now. The whole thing rubbed him in all the wrong ways. He _ hated _ how Silent Hill was viciously dominating him after all the time it spent being lazy and disinterested.

Harry spoke. “What’re you thinking about?”

James drew up his head. Harry’s friendly eyes didn’t penetrate the bland lack of emotion that met him. What was he thinking about? Frankly, it wasn’t any of Harry’s business what—

Suddenly James was gripped in a throttle that could’ve crushed him like a can. The air was forced from his lungs and every nerve was alight with blistering pain. He tried to breathe and found his chest too constricted for even a hiccup. Grabbing his shirt, he stumbled out of the chair (which clattered to the floor) and staggered on legs impaired by shooting needles of pain to the front door as he choked.

The door thrust open so hard it bounced off the railing and swept James off his unstable feet. His body ricocheted off the opposite side and careened down the stairs, dumping him in a crumpled heap at its base. The shout of his name was lost in the horrible buzzing in his ears. He crawled blindly on his forearms to what he trusted was a wall, and struck it with the top of his head. James had a small window to brace his hand on it and hopefully give enough space between it and himself to vomit.

His stomach tied itself into knots. A devastating ache tore through his body. Silent Hill was vehemently angry and twisted its longtime resident in retaliation for a crime he didn’t commit. His head was pounding so hard he thought it’d burst wide open and the secondhand hatred unloaded unseen rocks of ice upon his psychologically bruised body. 

James shook as he uselessly gasped for breath. Someone was here. They were not in South Vale but they were _ here _, trespassing on hallowed ground. He strained to push himself away from his sick, and didn’t have to bother as he was scooped up under his arms and dragged to the middle of the alley. 

_ Someone is here, _ the town thundered in his head in the form of disorienting throbbing. _ They are here and they’re not alone they’re not alone they’re _ ** _supposed_ ** _ to be here alone they are not alone are not alone _ ** _SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ALONE_ **

James was rolled onto his side. Air finally lurched into his lungs and he sucked for it greedily, his vision sparkling to haziness, away from the void that had enveloped his eyes. His coughs shuddered his frame, curling him in on himself with every hack, and worsening the soreness that soaked him. Panic trembled Harry’s voice despite how calm he struggled to be as he kept James propped on his side. The muffled hum in his ears began to subside, opening his eardrums as the swell of Harry’s voice floated into his head.

Eyes fluttering, James rolled them to the corners, straining to look up at Harry. The most anxious expression hung close to his head, shadowing him from the gleam of the neon hung high above the door behind them. He was taken off guard with how Harry appeared lambent.

This day was becoming too much. Any more of these pretty surprises was going to become an enormous burden on both of them. 

“Jesus Christ, James! What the fuck happened? Are you okay? Are you with me?”

James took a couple labored breaths. “I have had it up to here with today,” he replied, and earned a shaky chuckle from Harry. 

“No kidding,” he exhaled. “You’ve given me two heart attacks and it’s not even noon.”

James groaned and pulled away from Harry’s hands to flop on his back. His mouth was sour with the taste of vomit. He had nothing but acid and watery mud to expel, and the grit of dirt crunched in his teeth. Though his stomach still washed with nausea, he swallowed thickly and again turned his eyes to Harry. 

He had no idea how to explain the chaos. Harry hunched over him helplessly, setting one comforting hand on James’s shoulder. James was so tired with feeling pity and guilt towards Harry. That paternal, caring face made him bitter that it was focused on his wellbeing. They stared at each other as the older man calmed himself enough to relax his shoulders, and the overbearing drain of today’s events caused them to sag lower.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Harry told him quietly. “You looked like death itself was banging on your door.”

That voice was coated in fatigued relief. Harry was a sincere, gravely compassionate man that James found too overwhelming. He could hardly deal with his caretaking, no matter how small it was. Right now he couldn’t bring himself to let it bother him. His body was aching and his head was thudding with the dying whispers the town invaded him with.

James feebly dragged his hand down half of his face. If only death _ had _ been coming for him, permanently, he wouldn’t have fought hard against its call. He dropped his arm and slowly pushed himself up to sit. Harry was quick to assist, steadying him with his hand on his back as James locked his arm and leaned into it. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and, disgusted by the sheen that smeared his skin, cleaned it off on the side of his thigh.

He turned his head from Harry and spat out the rancid taste. Slumping on his arm, he stared listlessly at his knees and worked through the riot in his brain to formulate a lie to tell him.

So many lies have already been told, and so many more lies were yet to come.

“It was Silent Hill,” James said, deciding to spin a white lie. “It threw a fit.”

“Why was it throwing a fit?” he was asked, and James glanced over to see Harry sitting back on his calves.

“I don’t know. Something must’ve really upset it.”

Harry looked strained. “Do you know what it was?”

James shook his head, taking his eyes to the cement beneath his legs. “No. No clue. Something.. really terrible’s happened. It doesn’t tell me everything,” he explained, dropping his head to his risen shoulder. “I think it just wants to kick the shit out of someone and that someone gets to be me.”

Harry exhaled his breath in a whoosh and rubbed at his knees. “I don’t get it,” he murmured. “I don’t understand how you can _ feel _ what the town does.” Before James could shoot him that warning frown, Harry went on, aggravation tainting his level tone. “I know you hate that question and I know you won’t answer me, but goddammit, James, I am _ tired _ of being surprised by shit like this, and having zero idea how to handle it!”

They came to another standoff. James glared up at him sidelong from under his brows. Harry faced him full on, genuine resentment desecrating his kind face. “I don’t know how much of this I can take if I don’t know what the fuck is happening. This is _ traumatizing. _ I am gonna lose it if it keeps going on like this, _ especially _ in such a short time span, one after the other.”

“I can’t do _shit_ about it,” James bit back, brandishing his teeth. “I don’t get a say in any of this! I can’t control jack _shit_. Don’t you get it?” He winced as he tried to sit up more, but his body wasn’t yet in his favor. That only escalated his ill temper. “I am _not_ trying to fuck with you! I just can’t tell you _how_ or _why_ this happens, so you need to **_trust_** **_me _**on it, okay?”

“No, not okay!” Harry rebuked, raising his voice. “No James, I _ can’t _ trust you! Look,” he tried again, forcing his volume down to a normal, if not tense pitch. “I know this place is dangerous, I _ know _ that it messes with your head, and I _ know _ that things are much, much worse than they appear. I get that. Completely. Trust _ me _ on that,” he said, brazenly throwing James’s words back in his face. “I have been trying, so hard, to avoid asking you so many questions because you told me not to, and you have been keeping so many secrets from me and— I know you have to,” he ruefully admitted. “Like you said, I can’t know everything. But there have got to be some things you can share with me, James. Please. Clue me in. Give me something to work with. _ Anything _. Just tell me something that can make these episodes or whatever a little easier on me.”

James set his jaw and radiated so much contempt that Harry’s demeanor changed from controlled outrage to emotional depletion. 

“If we’re going to be stuck together here for a long time, I don’t want us to end up hating each other because we’re too stubborn to open up or seem weak,” he begged at a hush. “I have my secrets too. Contrary to popular belief I _ don’t _ want you to know everything about me. I don’t expect to get your life story and I’m not asking for it, I just want to have the ability to help where I can and cope where I can’t. This is important, James. I’ll ask for just this one thing from you right now. I know it’s a lot to get from you, but I _ promise _ , sharing this is going to make things a _ hell _ of a lot easier on the both of us in the future.”

James knew Harry was right. His ignorance put them both at an unfair disadvantage. In keeping these mysteries from him, James assumed he was doing the right thing. If Harry didn’t know, he’d be safer. The town would have to work harder to needle at him and make him crack, though it seemed it had already started ahead of schedule. James was not as disappointed as he imagined he’d be in the event that Harry broke early on. It wasn’t directly due to the town, either: it was James’s selfish shoulders that bore the sanity that Harry so desperately needed to hang on to.

James got up. He avoided Harry’s dejected, pleading face and brushed himself off, and frowned at the stain that his sick left on his shirt. Without acknowledging him just yet, he coldly walked past Harry and climbed the stairs to Heaven’s Night. 

Inside, when the door clicked into place, James balled up his fists and dug them into his eyes. Stars burst behind their violent pressure and he shoved his knuckles so hard into the sockets that he could’ve crushed his eyes to popping if he had the willpower. He wanted to scream his throat raw. His fists flashed open and went straight for his scalp, digging his dull nails into his head and yanking his hair painfully taut. For the last time that day his weight buckled in half as he threw his head between his knees, spending the scream he couldn’t release on clawing deeply at his skull.

The strength he used to dig into himself should’ve stripped his hair cleanly from its roots in chunks. Silent Hill was beyond torturing him; it was flaying and keel hauling him through tracks of razors. It was laughing uproariously. The evil forces that infested this town to the core of the earth had not gotten what they wanted, and like a spoiled child, turned their spite on the man they tethered to its wretched world. It fed off his agony and sucked down his despair like a dehydrated runner. The more that James succumbed to the unrelenting depression and subsequent unavoidable urge to brand himself with his own violence, the greater the dark power that Silent Hill siphoned from him.

Harry was _ right _ . James was so fucking _ stupid _ to think that his silence would save him forever. He unwittingly put that poor man in the immediate path of danger and turned his back on him while congratulating himself on his brilliance. There was no real protection in leaving Harry in the dark about what James meant to Silent Hill. This horrible truth ruined his fantasy that Harry would never be the wiser to the town’s machinations. He was supposed to collect his daughter without too much strife and be on his merry way out evermore. Instead, James promptly jeopardized Harry’s chances of making it out alive by choosing to keep such valuable information from him in the name of his own misbegotten pride.

James tore at his head. The soft skin flaked under his nails and dampened his roots with blood. His frame shook with unreleased rage and he hurled himself back to standing, ripping his hands from his hair. Staring at the ceiling he panted hard through his nose, mentally pushing to get himself in control. Cold wet stung the cuts on his scalp and he closed his eyes. The phenomenon rarely cooled his agony, but now it soothed his broken mentality’s demand for inflicting his own punishment.

For that, he was grateful. The trickles felt warm on his icy skin, though he knew that was only because their temperature was slightly above that of his body. He passed his hands over and through his hair, using the dampness from the water to comb it down from its unruly condition. James mellowed as he got what he came for. The dramatic swing of his mental state now shoveled him into a numbing stage in order to cope. The water ceased, its brief appearance serving an unusually charitable duty, and the godforsaken man was able to conceal its visit.

When James emerged from the club bearing the weapons that had been patiently waiting on the table, he found Harry where he left him. His dark head turned when he heard the door open and close, and further to watch James over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. Harry took his weight off his legs and stiffly got to his feet (and not without the throaty griping that James expected, and right then appreciated to hear). 

Harry accepted his beloved pipe when offered back to him. Though the air between them felt slandered, neither were too cowardly to look the other in the eye. There was no challenge made, and no forgiveness offered. 

James, though still numbed, could feel sorry for being the cause of that beaten down look on Harry’s face. The situation made an enormous dent in their already tentative relationship. He twisted his hand on the shotgun’s barrel. “We should look for anything we missed,” he said. “Ammo, better weapons.. whatever. When you think you’ve picked a place dry, you really haven’t.” He looked down. “Oh. And I should find another shirt.”

He didn’t have to see it to know that Harry smiled. James took temporary lead until they got to the street, where they stood together and wondered which way to go. Before they pitched a direction to each other, James flicked his eyes to the lost father. “By the way,” he mentioned, “I’ll consider it. I need to figure out how to tell you about all this. I’ve never had to talk about it before.”

Harry didn’t look as uplifted by that as he imagined he would. He looked like he needed to lie down and sleep for two days, and so soundly that he could miss a tornado passing right by his window. “Thanks,” he said, diluted by his lost energy. “I appreciate it.”

“Yeah.”

The men set off. James wasn’t wrong to suggest they take another sweep for supplies. It was a good excuse to find the words to come clean to Harry. Moreover, it served as a delay for the reveal of information so valuable that he couldn’t let it pile more turbulence on to the day.

Maybe it was sadistic of James not to tell Harry that his daughter had arrived, but the choices he made were never meant to be easy.


	13. Sherry, Won't You Come Out Tonight?

On the morn of the seventh day, James told Harry what it was like to be a conduit for Silent Hill.

He explained it like this: he was trapped here. Harry wasn’t going to learn the circumstances that led to it at this time, and he had to be prepared that he may never get that from him. Regardless, the town chained him to South Vale after realizing that he could be used as an energy source. It took ages for him to figure this out on his own. The concept itself was so strange that it seemed implausible, and if James had to admit it, kind of egotistical of him to think it. No one was  _ that _ special.

Harry silently disagreed.

Silent Hill gave him no extraordinary powers - or James didn’t consider them as such. He couldn’t control them. They were curses. The town thrived on negative energy. The more wicked and torturous it was, the more powerful it grew. It took some time (in the unidentifiable span of three years) for Silent Hill to become strong enough to infest James. It then took another couple years of field testing to develop the best method for sucking on him like a deranged vampire.

James didn’t know how to elaborate on how he knew that. The best he could offer was that he began to notice how the tantrums and hallucinations it inflicted upon him, combined with his psychotic depression, coincided with a surge of stifling energy in the atmosphere. A side effect of Silent Hill’s choice to use him as a generator meant that it in return, it fed him the ability to gather knowledge about what it wanted, what it was ‘thinking’, and tentatively, what it planned.

Telling Harry the reason behind that good morning wakeup call was not as hard as disclosing his depression. His empathy towards James was honest, though he neglected to look surprised. James couldn’t blame him. He didn’t really make it much of a secret at all. Having to say it out loud for the very first time was the difficult part. There was more than a fair amount of shame attached to such a deep-seated issue. As nonjudgmental as Harry appeared, James felt like a fool for allowing himself to stoop so low.

He went back to refining Harry’s understanding of Silent Hill. When he said he could sense what it was up to, he stressed that it didn’t speak to him with words. The town spoke with visions, emotion, and pain. It was up to James to interpret what any of that meant.

“The feelings swim around in my head like goldfish,” he described. “I get dizzy and sometimes I think I black out. At first I couldn’t make any sense of what was going on. Then as it happened more often and it became a regular thing for a while, I learned that I could turn all that into words. It’s like translating a language, I guess, but that doesn’t mean I can always do that. You know how sometimes things just don’t need words in order for something to be said?”

Harry looked like he knew all too well.

The games had dwindled lately. He couldn’t put a time frame on it or any of these events. James assumed that the town was letting him recuperate longer so it could get a nice filling meal out of him.

“Did it feel any weaker to you during that time?”

“Mm... no,” James said. “It felt pretty strong. Probably the strongest it’s ever been.” He paused, taking his eyes away from Harry’s. “I think it was waiting for something.”

“And any idea what that something is?”

James procrastinated while he sucked on his teeth and tried to pick the words out of the dingy carpet. Maybe Harry would believe that he was taking his time to find the best way to articulate it. After the minor collapse of their trust the day before, James came to the conclusion that that probably wasn’t going to pan out.

More white lies would have to do. “Yes, and no. It’s still bottling up its reserves. The.. feeling I’m getting from it is that something big is going to happen, or supposed to happen. What, or how, or why.. I’m totally in the dark.” James lifted his head and locked on to Harry’s dispirited eyes. “You can believe me, or you don’t, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve told you as much as I can.”

“As much as you’re willing,” Harry corrected despondently.

James spread his hands and dropped his back against the chair. “Sure, whatever, as much as I’m willing. I don’t know how much you knowing about these things is going to be used against you, Harry. That’s why I kept it from you before, and I have to pick and choose what I can tell you. You have no  _ idea _ what this place can do to you, and I really don’t consider myself an expert on it.” 

He shook his head and rubbed the tiredness from his face. “I’m sorry. I could have just put us both in deep shit trouble by telling anything. You get how it works now, right?” James glanced up and saw Harry nod. “So does that prepare you for when it happens in the future? Because it’s going to happen. I wish it wouldn’t, but..”

“Yeah.. it’ll have to. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that I’m probably not going to get insight about it when it does happen again.”

James sighed and weakly shrugged his hands in his lap. “Probably not. We’ll have to take it on a case-by-case basis.”

Harry’s scoff was quiet. James downcast his eyes when he heard it. 

“So.. can I ask just two more questions?”

James rolled his head back like an impatient teenager, but agreed.

“What’s with that water thing you do? How bad does it get?”

Harry was shot a challenging look tinted with just enough play that it snapped a rubber band on his old heart. “Are those both your questions?” James asked him, even the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile that was a bit puckish in nature. 

“Uh.. no,” he laughed distractedly, to James’s mild amusement.

“So pick one, and then pick another. You asked for two and I’m only letting you have two. Choose wisely.”

“Jeez, put some pressure on a guy, huh?”

As Harry scrambled to prioritize his thoughts, the resident’s rare roguish humor died. It was funny how those small instances could tip his glass a little. The man sought lighthearted commentary from a source that wasn’t accustomed to giving it. Back in Ashfield, James hadn’t been known for being a cheery man in the first place. Frank used to describe his son as being quiet, a little too serious, and even a little too boring. His one friend hesitated to call him a great guy to bring to parties; more like he was socially awkward and difficult to convince that he could have fun.

It appeared Harry made his first choice by the way he leaned over, set his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands and pointed both index fingers at James’s chest. “Okay. First one. What’s with the water thing?”

“I don’t know,” James boldly lied, and Harry believed. “It probably has something to do with why it’s all wet around here. I don’t know everything.”

Harry opened his mouth like he was going to ask a follow up, then shut it, and grinned. He wagged his two pointed fingers at him ( _ Aah, you said only two! _ ) and took a breath before pitching his second question.

“Can you feel it if people come to Silent Hill?”

If James could’ve chosen from a list of questions that Harry had for him, that one would not have made the top five. That was a loaded one. James looked away. He was forced to pull the wool over Harry’s eyes now that some of their tense air had cleared. It’d be best to give him the lightest fib he had. He searched for yet another way to weave a rug of deceit. He also just wanted the conversation to end. This is the most talking he’s, very possibly, ever done in one sitting. It was going to burn him out. 

“No. I don’t think so. I mean.. I didn’t feel  _ you _ coming in. I think if I were able to feel something like that, a person would have to be a pretty big deal for Silent Hill to clue me in to it.” 

Harry drew his lips inward. He looked like a hungry dog seeking a savory morsel from a dinner plate. James never fed animals from the table. There had to be discipline. The questions were answered and he had nothing left that he wanted to give him. 

Realizing that his Q&A session was truly over, Harry sat up, pushing his hands up and down his thighs. The information he took in was heavy, complicated, and left him unsatisfied. James could tell he didn’t meet Harry’s personal requirements. He guessed his cravings for every detail stemmed from his occupation as a writer. Outside of Silent Hill, James had also kept his life private, even from those close to him. Even from Mary. 

Towards the end of her suffering, he had made himself a stranger to her. 

It felt like his energy for the day was wasted. Accompanied by Harry’s zesty life force, ever bright in the wake of their demoralization yesterday, James felt drained from head to toe, and he needed to recover. Harry’s slow meandering across the floor attracted his dull stare. It seemed like their suffocation was mutual. Harry took up his favorite weapon and prematurely dug his hand into his jacket pocket. 

“I’m gonna take a walk.”

He got a nod of acknowledgment. Harry turned, opened the unblocked door, and shut it securely behind him. 

James closed his eyes and drank in the lonely silence. 

The men felt worlds better after some lengthy time to themselves. When Harry returned he was feeling renewed, and James recharged in his misery. The map reappeared. They deduced that they’d cleaned out the town so well that Harry had to find a backpack to hold their supplies. Their wealth of ammo and first aid necessities ensured they’d be ready for their run of the mill encounters as well as “oh shit” moments. 

Harry chose to shoulder the bag, not that James offered to. They were heading to the observation deck that supposedly housed James’s car. Going back up the trail to his fated starting point left a bad taste in his mouth, but he couldn’t summon the right excuse to change Harry’s mind. 

“We might find something you missed on the way down,” was his argument. “I can’t imagine you were looking for anything in that moment, anyway.”

James wondered if it was coincidence that they were staying in the Ridgeview Medical Clinic, which sat directly on the eastern corner of Nathan Avenue and Lindsey Street. It was convenient for their route. They’d head south and turn off at the third street, and from there it was pretty self explanatory. 

After walking down the road, they hitched a left at Wilson and Sanders and followed a street large enough for only one car. Harry provided commentary along this stretch, starting with the Roadrunner sign and its establishment lost in the fog. James couldn’t help him identify what lay behind the barbed wire border; he hadn’t been up this way since he came down it. It never piqued his curiosity.

Harry felt cheated that there was a pocket of nature so close to the neighborhood. James pointed out that he didn’t ask, so why would he have said anything? For that he was called a spoilsport, and the winding road led them further away from familiarity. The white, rusting traffic barrier that sporadically guarded the drop to a canal gave way to a concrete tunnel in sore need of repairs. As James pushed open the creaking metal gate, Harry called attention to the warning sign hung at their eye level.

“Hey, this says ‘DANGER - Keep out’! You think anyone’s gonna catch us?”

James turned his head, paused, then completed the look over his shoulder. “No. Someone might run us over, though.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry reckoned. “This is a pretty tight road.”

He observed the rotted and unreadable posters that were pasted to the tunnel walls and until they stepped out onto an even narrower dirt path. “How did anyone expect to drive down this way?” Harry scoffed. “This is only safe enough for a motorcycle.”

“Probably not even that,” James muttered, not too interested in staying in a conversation. Harry heard the wryness in his voice and took the hint for the time being.

Their observations were contradicted when the route suddenly expanded and they found cars, unloved and abandoned, parked tightly to the fence. 

Seeing the Silent Hill Ranch sign jogged James’s memory. The graveyard wouldn’t be that far off now. He grappled with his resentment of stepping into that sorrowful place and the reminders it harbored. Since he was too busy preparing for the past, he tuned out of Harry’s speculative remarks about the ranch and pressed on. The fog here was thicker than it presented in South Vale and heavily obscured the nature that the older man wanted to admire. Despite that, James heard him whisper ‘ _ Wow, it’s kinda pretty up here’ _ and he would have liked to agree with him.

The arched gate somberly welcomed them to a place of worship and eternal rest. Passing through it onto sacred ground silenced Harry. He respected the dead. James’s feet became heavier as the unkept grass crunched under his soles and the grey haze somehow appeared even more dense than the way it’d hung on the path behind them. The arrangement of gravestones disoriented him its thick, and he easily lost Harry in the maze.

He wanted desperately to get through the cemetery as soon as possible. An oppressive weight encompassed every miserable inch of it, watching him and accusing him. He felt like he was being tried for a case of severe neglect before a ghostly jury. The victim herself felt present, and the remorse of mistakenly finding the grave where he first found her kneeling caused him to duck his head.

Somehow, it didn’t feel right to mourn her here. Angela had been as lost as he was. She knew the way to Silent Hill when he didn’t, but misplaced herself in her own troubles: a tendency that they both shared. They came to find people that knew them, beckoned them, had loved them and hurt them. Neither of them understood what the other had been through. All accusations and perceptions of each other were born from the strife of their existence. 

Their misfortunate souls were rattled so badly that they didn’t care what would become of them in Silent Hill. 

Poor, helpless Angela. She was the sole person he didn’t feel guilt for, but relief. She had thanked him for saving her, but James knew he hadn’t. He’d never would’ve been able to, for her path didn’t require a savior. Nobody could heal all her pain. Her gift to him was the strength he lacked and the comprehension he internally sought, and that he had vehemently denied for three years.

James found the mouth for the stone-walled path out when he heard Harry call for him from within the low cottony clouds. He stopped and looked out into the veil. He’d completely forgotten about Harry, and he was the reason he was here in the first place. 

The embarrassed guilt was much lighter than it generally was. “Harry? Harry!”

“James? Where’d you go, bud?”

“I’m over here.”

“That’s great, let me just find ‘over here’ on my map and I’ll get right to ya.”

God almighty, Frank Sunderland would be proud to know him. “Just follow my voice.”

“You’re gonna have to keep talking.”

“Harry, just get over here.”

James could tell that he was within feet of finding him, and Harry likely knew too. It didn’t stop the blithe older man from calling out, “Marco!”

“Polo,” James replied automatically. The response was so natural and ingrained in him during childhood that he didn’t think twice about it, and Harry stepped out of the mist with the sneakiest ‘gotcha’ grin James had ever seen. 

“There you are. Somehow that always works. And now I know where ‘over here’ is!”

Harry earned himself a great roll of James’s eyes and the view of his back.

The trail after the well forced them to play follow the leader. They hiked single file with James in the lead up a winding path that was treacherous in this weather. What would have been a beautiful journey was sullied by the inability to see more than three feet ahead of them, and the muffled effect the fog had on the atmosphere. It made the noise of their feet crunching dirt and dry pine uncomfortably loud. Harry tried to keep his labored breathing under control, as it aided the unpleasant experience.

James wasn’t bothered by the uphill walk, nor by the two flights of stairs that awaited them. He climbed with ease, his heart tapping a nervous dance of anticipation instead of exertion as Eddie’s derelict van became clear in his sights.

The sign pointing to Toluca Lake stood before him. He took a deep breath to ready himself for whatever there was to see behind him when he heard Harry’s feet scraping on the cement steps. James purposefully turned towards the sign’s point outward so as not to spoil his first look at a parking lot he never meant to visit again, and watched his companion trudge to meet him.

Harry was utilizing the round handrail well. He stopped at the two final steps to the deck, trying to swallow the dryness in his throat and rejuvenate his lungs at the same time. James looked on impassively while the other man leaned into his elevated thigh and caught his breath. 

“Fuck!” he exhaled, glowering up at James. “How are you not tired? Jesus Christ, that was a climb.” Harry rolled a shoulder and groused under his breath. “This heavy backpack really isn’t helping, either.”

James had no words for him, and simply waited for Harry to finish the ascent. When he shuffled to his victory beside James, Harry let out a solid ‘whew!’ and adjusted the straps slung over his shoulders. “Well, thanks for the workout. I’m gonna look really good by the time I get outta here.”

He again received silence. James faced the sign. He heard the wayward father observe the vehicle parked immediately to their right (“That’s kinda creepy” was the verdict), and closed his eyes.

This was his third, and had better be his last, time on the observation deck. James remembered leaning on the stone border when he first arrived, taking in the last clear view of Toluca Lake. His head had been muddled and he’d tasted the heat of alcohol when he breathed through his nose. Better judgment had been thrown out the window for an undetermined matter of days, and James drove the twisting road to his personal hell drunk. He didn’t feel sick from from the drink nor the drive, but from the letter that was folded safely against his breast. 

The second time James made the hapless trek up the hill, he wasn’t even aware of where he was until he had his hands on the steering wheel. The seatbelt was already strapped to his chest and secure over his lap. Beyond the half wall, the trees were giants, casting themselves as black behemoths in the grey haze. James had set the car in reverse and laid his arm across the rim of the bench seat as he eased backward. He didn’t want his bumper to hit the fence. It could get scratched.

The stone should have made his plan unobtainable. James’s head was empty and he felt indifferent to the car thrashing his body and the glass exploding as it tumbled violently down the hillside. 

The lake was colder than it looked, and James took a deep breath as his shared coffin took the Sunderlands to the deep.

“Hey, a billboard for Pete’s Bowl-O-Rama. It must’ve been a pretty good attraction back in its heyday.”

James looked up at the decaying advertisement. “Eh. It isn’t anything to brag about.”

Harry snuggled his hands into his leather pockets and looked at him. “Not a fan of bowling, huh?”

His green shoulder lifted. “I don’t have any strong opinions either way.”

While nothing was said, the way that Harry departed from the conversation uttered,  _ You don’t seem to have many opinions about anything _ .

James heard, and knew it. 

He wasn’t ready to turn around. James didn’t think he’d ever be ready, and outcome of his fears was thrust upon him when Harry made a short noise of excitement.

“Hey! Your car’s still here! Can you believe it?” James’s shoulders tensed hard, his back tightening and his fists clenching. He squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his chin to his chest. “Jeez, man, you left your door wide open. You’re lucky no one’s around to try to steal it. This looks like a classic. What year is it?”

No. No, no, no, no,  _ no. _ James whipped around, his eyes wide with terror. Harry had begun circling the car, pouting in sympathy for the sorry state a long ago James let it deteriorate to, and still appreciating its craftsmanship. Though his legs had become so tense that they hampered his immediate ability to run, he found the freedom of voice in his throat.

“1977!” Harry stopped short of the small, triangular widow above the back wheel. He looked interested, and chose to ignore the way that James seemed frozen in place. It was for the good of both of them.

“Yeah? It looks like a Pontiac.”

He could move again. His approach was brisk. “It’s a Pontiac Ventura. She was my dad’s,” James elaborated when he got closer. “He bought her fresh off the line. He uh, wanted to keep her at her best and make her a show car one day.”

The men took their eyes to the vehicle that hadn’t seen proper love and care for years before it came to rest in this haunted parking lot. Its paint bathed it in skymist blue from hood to trunk and must’ve been stunning waxed up all pretty, with the rims glinting under the sun. The classic vinyl bench seats matched the blue exterior and boasted a thick white stripe down the middle. It made for a nostalgic sight. A car collector would have paid well to get their hands on it back when it was kept young and healthy. 

Harry felt sorry for it. James was flashed a tarnished, bygone memory of the way his father would look at him spitefully when he passive-aggressively commented on the neglect his son showed the car. Those things had been shucked from his thoughts for ages. He even stunned himself by recalling these little details that he was sure he wouldn’t’ve been able to retrieve if he’d been asked three days ago. Why did he remember them  _ now _ ?

“So.. she, huh? Did she have a name?” Harry leaned in to take a look at the original interior. He kept his hands respectfully in his pockets and contentedly examined what he could easily see. Nothing about him was truly a car man, but he’d picked up a thing or two hanging around those types of guys. He hummed in recognition of some of the bells and whistles while James stood anxiously behind him. One thing he did notice was a dangling plastic yellow keychain near the steering wheel. A tilt of his head showed him that the key was still in the ignition. Harry had the choice: comment on it, or pretend he didn’t see it. 

“Uh, yeah. Madeline.”

“Oh, that’s a nice name.” Her owner noted that Harry didn’t sound committed to the compliment, but was too polite to say otherwise. James’s distress was climbing steadily towards panic as the curious writer peeked over the back of the blue seat.

“My dad chose it. I didn’t really think she looked like a Madeline.”

That drew Harry’s interest away from his examinations and straightened to look at James. “What would you have picked?”

James began to relax. He felt like he was in charge of the scene. “Sherry.”

The vintage name made Harry’s head shake in astonishment. “Sherry? Well, I didn’t expect that.”

James laughed uneasily. “Why do you say that?”

Harry sucked in a breath and twisted to get another look at the car. “Weeell, I.. I dunno. I thought you’d name her Bluebell, or.. Sapphire, or something along those lines.”

He thought he should have taken more offense to that statement than he currently did. James squinted slightly and for the first time since they met, he tucked his hands into his green pockets. “Yeah?”

Facing James again, Harry’s second round of surprise was softer. The troubled man before him looked at ease. Calm. He tried to take those moments with a grain of salt, knowing what lurked behind those deadened eyes. Even still, to him in this moment, James looked more like an actual human.

A whisper suggested to him to play a ruse in order to lower Harry’s guard. James wasn’t as comfortable as his posture projected. The little voice didn’t sound sinister, and that convinced him to trust it. He knew it worked, and he was sorry that Harry was emotionally gullible.

Harry smiled. “Yeah.”

James nodded slowly and moved his gaze to the car. “My, uh.. one of the first songs I remember hearing in that car was ‘Sherry Baby’ by The Four Seasons.”

It was Harry’s turn to misread emotions one after the other. He thought he saw James shed his mournful facade and slip into a happier time, just for a moment. This kept him reverently quiet, watching a tortured man find a crumb of peace.

If James knew what Harry was thinking he would have bitterly laughed. Though he had been revealing more details about himself than ever before, these felt like throwaways to satisfy Harry’s desire to know him without encouraging further interrogation. As soon as he told him about his should-be-fond memories, they were ejected from all connections and went up in flames. In the scheme of things, he found he didn’t consider them to be important at all. 

That was how it had to be. Being anchored for so long, far away from his home and the people he knew, caused them to slip away from his memory in the name of acceptance to his fate. This was the first time he’d thought so much about his father in an overflowing handful of years. Frank Sunderland bubbled to the surface and those tidbits along with him, and James was mildly perturbed that they were so easy to see. He suspected Harry’s robust life force had something to do with it, though felt that was overreaching. There was no reason to blame him, so the accountability fell on Silent Hill once again.

These memories were things that weren’t relevant anymore and didn’t give him that homesick regret that they used to incite. They meant nothing, and so James forgot them one more time.

He came back to the present when Harry drew his attention to the lever that opened the trunk. Without asking, he pulled it and the back popped open, much to the surprise of both of them. James’s shock stemmed from the brazenness of Harry’s action, while Harry seemed to not anticipate it to function properly.

“Oh. Uh,” he started sheepishly, catching the incredulous stare he was being given, “Sorry. For some reason I didn’t think that’d work.” 

James’s face downgraded slightly to indignation. He flatly replied, “The car isn’t  _ that _ worn down.”

At the very least he expected Harry to look sorry for his misstep and he was not disappointed. Now James was an authority figure scolding a delinquent. If he hadn’t been so on edge about the trunk being open in the first place, he might have felt a touch of silliness about it. 

The critical air kept both of them in place. James wanted to rush over and slam the trunk closed and pull Harry out of this desolate lot, but he knew he had to keep composure. If the car had resurfaced and graced the earth as it had been abandoned like some museum piece, there was a high chance that its contents had been looted by the hands of sunken pirates, as artifacts often were. 

There was also a high chance that his cargo was too precious to be stolen away, and patiently awaited James’s return.

Since James made no effort to move, Harry assumed he was waiting for him to close the trunk as his apology. It would be the polite thing to do, and strolling guiltily to the back of the car, he drew the lid upward in preparation to give it a sure and sound closure. 

In fact, this was the direct _opposite _of what James wanted. His hands ripped from his pockets and he reached to stop him, but it was going to be too late. The lid was high and Harry paused, his eyes cast down to make sure his strength met the car’s needs. James held his breath.

He shrugged his shoulder at what the trunk contained and closed it tight. James was stationary. As a round of consternation creased his brows, Harry turned to him. 

“You travel light, huh?”

James lowered his hands to his sides.  _ What? _ The expression must have equally bemused Harry, as he then gestured to the back of the car. “It’s empty. Hope you didn’t have anything important in there. I can’t imagine someone or some monster coming up here and cleaning you out.”

The resident’s lips parted. He should feel relieved, but couldn’t evoke the feeling. The car had been restored as though its tumble had never happened. With that in mind, it would have been logical to assume that the cargo was also intact. And yet, it was gone. What he knew about Harry so far meant that he was too reactive to lie; he wouldn’t be able to, and never about something like that. 

The silence left Harry to wonder what made James temporarily jumpy, and the younger man uneasily turned to lay his hand on the rim of the open door. 

James looked out into the dense grey mist. Toluca Lake’s beauty lay unknown behind its curtains. A part of him wanted to see it; the view was breathtaking and serene, a last look at peace. 

There was no way to relive that. James distractedly rubbed the metal frame made slick by dewy humidity and brought his eyes to the neglected interior. He wanted to get out of here. There was nothing left to see. The things that wanted to rise to the surface of their graves were pushed back into the soil of his mind. No more memories, no more reminiscing.

No more prolonging his deceit.

“Harry.”

The better man of the two lifted his chin ahead of his inquiry. “Yeah? What’s up?”

James drummed two fingers on the door and turned his body sidelong to look at him. “I think Heather’s here.”

He got the reaction he wanted. Harry’s lips parted and his body straightened with full attention and giddy optimism. “Really? Heather? Are you sure?”

His blond head nodded and he stepped away from Sherry, his arm sliding off her door. It’d be the last time he’d get to have a moment with her, and yet he forwent giving her a fond farewell, like a heartless former lover. James’s hands found his pockets again and he strolled closer to his companion.

“Yeah. I’m sure. Well.. pretty sure. Silent Hill just said, ‘she’s here’.”

Harry’s breath came quick through his nose and he lowered his eyes, darting them at the ground as he worked out the trepidation. When he snapped them back up, James was still staring at him, awaiting a reply.

James didn’t blame him that he looked distrustful. “You’re  _ positive _ that’s what it said? I thought you said you couldn’t feel people coming in,” Harry asked him, wary to be so hopeful. “I just.. expected it to— for you to react more..” He trailed off, trying to formulate the right structure to explain himself in a way that wouldn’t offend his guide. His hand rolled in the air in an attempt to prompt James into finishing his thoughts, but the gesture didn’t speak for itself. “More.. outwardly.. affected.”

That was fair. James’s forced theatrics set a tone for other urgent memos from Silent Hill. For so important a message, he was too collected and too nonchalant about it.

“I don’t think I was meant to hear it,” James deceived, avoiding his failed attempt at fraud from earlier. “Sometimes I hear and feel things that I suspect I wasn’t supposed to know about. I’m stuck to the town, Harry. I’m pretty much a part of it. It can control a whole lot of what happens to me, but like I said, it also means that I can pick up on things that I’m guessing I wasn’t supposed to know about.”

That information had more implications than Harry had considered, and would have to ruminate on later. James may have given him too much information then, but what was said was said and he couldn’t erase the words. He looked on as Harry weighed his explanation against his uncertainty and, finding he had no other choice than to trust him, nodded his acceptance.

“Okay. I got it. So where is she? Where do we go?”

James inhaled a deep sigh. “Far away from here. The feeling was really distant. It was like it was out of South Vale. Like.. on the other side of it. Across the lake.”

That was the truth. During their sweep and the following night’s strained stay in their last apartment, James was listening to the wiretap he had on the town. The forces were too distracted with whatever was here that they weren’t paying attention to James at all at the time. He liked it when town made those little mistakes. It gave him a taste of control. If Silent Hill knew it’d opened its private airwaves to his ears, he had to believe that it would have done something terrible about it.

“Across the lake..” Harry’s eyes roved the sky as he quickly clicked the puzzle pieces together. “The lake..” James’s gaze was waiting for him when his head snapped to look at him. “Silent Hill. Old Silent Hill! She’s in Old Silent Hill!”

All that cautious tension dropped away. Harry laughed with pure jubilation and struck his palms together, then shook his fists victoriously in the air, high above his head. His celebration was only mildly infectious. James watched a man whose only real purpose in life was his daughter laugh and pace excitedly with a youthful bounce in his step. If only James could share his happiness. It felt wrong to have kept this to himself for a little over a day, but reasoned that he needed the time to make absolutely sure that his information would be correct. Besides, he wasn’t sure if Harry would have had the same euphoric reaction that he observed now; though he had no doubt that if he’d spoken too soon, Harry would have missed this chance to feel real joy such as this.

Harry’s body threw James’s balance off kilter. He grunted, taken aback not only at the chance he could fall but the sudden strength of Harry’s arms hugging him tight. Though the two of them staggered together, their feet struggling to help their bodies stay safely vertical in their haphazard dance, James’s bewilderment kept him from processing what, exactly, was going on.

He was squeezed in a bear-like grip that felt like the first drop on a roller coaster. The vigor pushed a cough from James’s lungs and Harry let him go at once. James was still wobbly on his legs when his shoulder was struck with good intentions, and his cheek and hair experienced a drive-by with a warm palm. James stared, amazed, as Harry grabbed the straps under his arms and started energetically off towards the stairs he’d griped about. 

James trailed cautiously behind. Harry’s physical exuberance felt violating to a man who hadn’t engaged in physical affection in far, far too long. Perhaps someone would find it hilarious that it caused James to feel mild distrust and apprehension towards the other man. It  _ was _ ridiculous, and James’s uneasiness would go ignored.

Though at first Harry appeared to be beelining for the trail, he’d noticed the signs above the gated tunnel. James caught up to him, standing a couple feet behind the visitor, and observed the signs with hm.

Harry’s voice sounded a little crestfallen when he spoke. “Fifty miles to Old Silent Hill.”

“Mm. Seems that way.”

He saw those poor shoulders slump a little. Fifty miles is quite a trek. They remained quiet, Harry concentrating on trying to calculate the travel time, and James feeling bland and apathetic. He didn’t want to say it yet and ruin the mood, but he was in the camp of suspecting that he would not be able to accompany Harry all the way to Old Silent Hill. It’d be nice to get a change of scenery, absolutely, however the town had made it clear to him a few times already that it didn’t want him wandering off. This would be another test of his ties and his destiny of Silent Hill as his god, though he couldn’t feel confident about his chances.

Harry finished his numbers game and sighed. “Since we have to go all the way back down through South Vale and take Nathan, it’s gonna be a shorter travel time than it would be if this tunnel was open. So technically, we have that advantage. It would have been  _ nice _ if the map included mileage,” he said disdainfully, “ _ and _ it would have been nice to have a complete map of the area, but since we don’t, I’m going to have to put it in the ballpark of four hours to get there.”

James slowly nodded his understanding where Harry couldn’t see it. “Okay. Glad we thought ahead and picked up everything we could.”

Harry’s laugh was soft and he looked over shoulder with a smile that matched. “Yeah, no kidding. We better start now. It’s gonna get dark on the road and it’s  _ really _ gonna suck when we have nowhere to camp out.”

“Can’t dispute that.”

James took a last look at the signs above. They were once proud to guide travelers to a place of beauty and respite, and now their tunnel served as a barrier to a depraved, sick town. They were sad and disgraced. The resident and tourist left the observation lot full of memories and preordained futures and began their, hopefully, last passing tour through South Vale. 


	14. The Road Less Traveled

The hour they spent walking Nathan Avenue went mostly uninterrupted. Without the attention that Silent Hill had been focusing on them before, the men found its ghoulish citizens had made themselves sparse. Neither had qualms about this development. The less they had to fight the quicker they were able to get to their destination. Even so, the few stragglers were aggressive. With Harry weighed down by the backpack, it came to James to do the brunt of the work. The past week had given him the practice he’d been falling out of, and their problems were quickly solved. Harry thought they worked well together, and would have mentioned it to James if he hadn’t believed he’d jinx their future. 

The backpack was heavy. After they’d made it back to South Vale, they agreed that now would be a good time to unload the weapons that they had secured in the straps and kept snug between it and Harry’s back. It lightened the load for a little while, and by the time they passed the historical society, the older man was starting to feel the strain again.

His spine had already been bearing the burden of aging long before he stepped back into his living nightmares. Harry began to adjust the pack more often, trying to find a little reprieve where he could, and after the fourth time, James spoke up to offer his turn. Harry hesitated on it; he would’ve really liked to hand the duty over and reduce the time it took for his back to fail him before his sixties, but he couldn’t shake the distrust he had. When he declined the help, James said nothing, and Harry wished he had ignored his gut feeling this one time and handed it over.

The travelers had their reservations about actually making it to the amusement park. Since their first attempt at leaving town went so poorly, there was a great chance that they’d take another trip on the paradoxical merry-go-round. Harry was the one to voice this fear and immediately scolded himself for possibly cursing their luck, especially after the care he took to keep his other thoughts to himself. To no one’s surprise, James had nothing to add. 

The conduit was less fearful of Nathan Avenue spitting them out at the park again, and more about how deep his roots went. The only way he’d gotten across the lake was by boat, and the map stated that the hotel was rather close to the amusement park. James always got the impression that he wasn’t allowed to even get near the hotel on foot. His only hope for getting anywhere else was the lake, and the boat was moored at a dock far away. 

All attempts to swim were rebuffed. Malevolent hands would reach from the abyss and drag him down into the dark. Every time, he’d come to in South Vale’s romantic Rosewater Park, on his back behind the railing that bordered the lookout and the shore, drenched and forever anchored to his special place.

James once sought to cross past the historical society on foot instead, and was rewarded with backlash so unbearable that he fled to the bowling alley. He never tried it again until their first foray onto Nathan.

Along the way Harry pointed out a sign that had been previously obscured by fog. It boasted a once-colorful advertisement for the Lakeside Amusement Park and claimed it was three miles off. That was hardly a hike, and it lifted Harry’s spirits that they might make it to Old Silent Hill much faster than they anticipated. James had nothing to offer on the good news but an “Oh, yeah”, to which Harry gladly overlooked to keep the pep in his step.

The museum came and went. Nonetheless, they didn’t dare think they were out of the woods just yet. Not too long after, however, James felt strangely lighter. The burden that South Vale bore upon him was gradually lifted until the remaining pressure was so alien that he felt like an astronaut returning to earth. He correctly decoded the reason: Silent Hill was so distracted with its new, urgent problems that it had put its attentions on James and Harry temporarily on hold.

This was an incredible development. He should have shared it with Harry, and for two reasons he didn’t. For one, James had already provided so much information that he regretted telling Harry anything. James blamed the weakness that came from the shock of sudden companionship. After all this time, he was not alone in Silent Hill, and to make things a little worse, his ward was a veteran. Perhaps that was a part of the reason why he spoke more freely than he ever meant to; the other part of it being that he owed it to Harry to keep him safe.

Secondly, he kept his findings to himself for the simple, endearing fact that Harry seemed to be the superstitious type. It was kind of adorable. 

Harry hated when people called his minor superstitions ‘adorable’. He found those kinds of comments condescending. He didn’t keep them because he believed them to a T, but because he thought they were fun, and the idle warnings did have their place in his life. When he’d first imparted those nuggets of wisdom onto Heather, she scrunched up her face and spent the next five minutes asking her father ‘Why?’ until he gave up explaining and told her to finish her macaroni.

Oh, Heather; his poor baby girl. Harry’s nerves were twitchy with fear and impatience. _ We only have three miles to go, _ he kept telling himself, _ and then it can’t be any more than two miles from there. It’ll take maybe two hours. It’s nothing. We’ll make it by nightfall. It’s nothing. _

He glanced at James. In a gross understatement, yesterday had been an event. Harry had felt off about him before, and it had only gotten worse within the past two days. After all that high end drama and disastrous look into the intricacies of James Sunderland, he _ really _ wished he’d been able to sleep off the stress. In hindsight, he was kind of sore that in explaining the way Silent Hill altered their human needs, James completely neglected to mention the one Harry loved, and would miss, the most. 

Silent Hill stole away from them the need to sleep. In their intense situation, it was a blessing. If they didn’t have to sleep, they had more time to plan, gather, run, and fight. For Harry, it was tricky to get used to pulling constant 24 hour days and not needing to crash out. But it also meant he couldn’t enjoy even _ mimicking _ sleep. Harry so badly wanted to take a twelve hour nap after that hellish morning they’d had. The rest of that day his companion had been more distant than ever before, putting a further strain on not only their shaky relationship, but the rope that was Harry’s patience. It would have been _ really nice _ to put that all away in sweet unconsciousness for awhile.

Neither of them remembered the first lie that James told him in the Neighborhood Cafe about how Harry had woken him up when he barged in, and at this point, Harry wouldn’t want the pretext anyhow.

He didn’t want to to be scared of James. Harry was severely downplaying his despondency towards him. Being a man of high spirits (though even in normal civilization, he had to fake it ’til he made it some days - or weeks), he was reluctant to let James set the mood. As it turned out, hard as he tried, the mood had been set for years and a man who cherished life couldn’t even scratch the surface.

Years. It’d been seventeen years since Harry brought his little girl home, and seventeen beautiful years in raising her - and keeping her safe from the knowledge of Silent Hill. On some level he knew it wasn’t his fault that she was abducted and brought back here. He knew this might happen one day. It still made him feel like a failure. However, ruminating like this wasn’t going to get Heather back any faster and it wasn’t going to do either of them any good if he couldn’t keep his sights set on the goal.

Harry had sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to get tangled up in James and his bullshit, but that was before he learned what he was. That man was an anomaly. He was a powerhouse; a fuzzy radio not unlike the one in his green pocket; a friend _ and _ a foe. There was no telling what James was actually capable of. The words that fell from his mouth during his explanations could have been truths or lies, and he had no way of knowing which were which.

Harry really tried to see the good in people. So far, James was making it difficult for him to find a balance. He wanted to trust the only other human in this wretched place and he began to doubt that James was human at all. 

He told James to his face that he didn’t trust him, and Harry was going to stick to his guns.

They were following a bend. Nathan Avenue had turned into Sandford Street. They were close to the lake, so close that the musk of its waters were strong in their path. With every foot they stepped the more optimistic Harry was, and he forcibly turned all his grievances into the ‘go get ‘em’ confidence he’d been putting forward all this time.

The smell of the lakewater was getting more potent. Harry was reminded of boardwalks and beaches where the salt couldn’t be escaped. “Hey, you think we’re still by the lake?” he joked to his shotgun-wielding guide, expecting his efforts to be in vain. 

Harry couldn’t tell if there was a 50/50 chance or a 30/70 chance that James would ever respond to him. Whenever he did though, all other feelings aside, Harry liked to hear his voice.

He was pleasantly surprised to hear a response cut through the expected silence. “No. I think we completely passed it half a mile ago.”

“Hm. So.. was that you, then?” Harry shot him a grin. James really _ could _ be funny when he chose to engage. Like he’d said before about embarrassing Heather: every chance he got was a chance worth taking.

James nibbled on the hook. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Harry, but I sure don’t like being framed.”

“I think you’re reading too far into a book without many pages,” he replied, achingly rolling his shoulders.

“You’re giving a lot of thought into excuses for a guy that may have accused me of something I didn’t do.”

This was the James that was too rare and Harry really liked. “Hey, I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” he said, wagging his pipe at him. “I was just asking a question, and it’s not my problem if you took it for a spin.”

Harry grinned when James actually gave him a laugh. “I— I don’t know why I’m arguing with you,” the involuntary citizen replied. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I did _ very _ well on the debate team,” he bragged, swinging his pipe arm to and fro. “I was the best listener they had and I looked _ great _ on the benches.” Harry got a chuckle from him this time, and their sorely missed banter boosted his mood. 

“Yeah, okay Harry.”

The high from their ever brief mucking about had to be contained, and Harry couldn’t help feeling taken further down with the anchor of reality. James could have a good time, and Harry could enjoy that time with him, but the facts were still facts:

James could not be trusted.

Past some dilapidated buildings they found the street improved and lined with hedges. These were trimmed, much like the ones decorating the park back in South Vale, and stood as reverent guards the further they walked. It didn’t take much longer for a ghostly silhouette, great and tall in the mist, to appear like a foreboding beacon.

In contrast, the road no longer felt so lonely and desolate. The fog began to clear. From the shadow emerged a grand, picturesque hotel: tall, elegant, and proud. It looked vaguely colonial to Harry, but picking out eras wasn’t really an area of expertise. 

It was a gorgeous establishment. The grass was green and the bushes trimmed. A clean silt path offered an easy trail to the front entrance. At this turnoff Harry paused, staring up the breathtaking lakeside resort.

He didn’t see how James regarded the hotel like it was the gaping wound of hell.

They really weren’t that far away from the amusement park. The billboards were pockmarked by weather and age, but they told them that they were getting closer. They were likely within arm’s reach of their destination. Harry was desperate to get to Old Silent Hill, and yet.. looking at this once-glamorous getaway, the soft little voice of his intuition said, _ Go inside. _

Harry did listen to his intuition quite a lot. There was something in there that would be crucial to them. It may even relate to Heather. He couldn’t take the chance of missing it.

“What a place, huh? Wow. I wonder how much the rooms go for.” Harry turned down the footpath and followed the signs directing them to the lobby. Behind him, the reluctant step of James’s heavy feet put further distance between them.

The courtyard was expansive and its lawn a healthy dark green, sporting a fountain on each side of the lane that led from the hotel to the walkway along the lake. Harry admired this peaceful place. Whoever built this lot had a clear vision in mind and it was executed to its finest. He could easily imagine a happy throng of people gathering to enjoy the scenery and the comforts of the hotel. 

Its solitude was saddening. There would no longer be families and newlyweds to grace this handsome getaway. As it was, as everything else in Silent Hill was doomed to be, it was meant to be abandoned and sit in the ruins of memories. 

Harry skipped up the first few steps to the front doors then walked the rest. James lingered at the base, staring up at the hotel that towered before him like a great beast intimidating its unworthy prey. It made him feel small, exposed, and hollow. There was little James could be terrified about anymore in this haunted town; but this place before him, slathered in fraudulent beauty, was always going to be the only exception.

James piped up. “I doubt it’s open.”

“That’s why I’m going to try to open the door,” Harry replied. “C’mon up, James, the water’s fine.” He glanced back at him over his shoulder and then paused, his eye catching the landscape from his stellar vantage point. “Wow. The view’s nice from up here, too. I can see the whole lake.” Turning fully, he beamed at the pretty sight, and squinted into the distance. “Hey.. there’s a dock! Maybe later we can go out for a row, huh? If there’s a boat, that is.”

_ There better not be_, James thought icily. 

He watched Harry appreciate the sights. Hatred stewed in his dead heart that was falsely directed at the older man; he wasn’t to blame for their detour. Harry was inquisitive to an enormous fault, in spite of the pressing matter of finding his daughter as soon as possible. They didn’t have to stop when the amusement park was so goddamn close they could taste the spoiled popcorn carts. 

Though Silent Hill had briefly forgotten to monitor their progress, it seemed that it had a backup plan on reserve. Of course; it made sense. The road had been open to James and Harry because of the hotel.

Oh, how he hated this fucking town.

“Harry, we are on a time restraint. We don’t want to get caught up in here when it gets dark.”

“We won’t spend a long time in here,” Harry assured. “Just a quick look around and then we’ll be off. There might be something useful.”

James tried again. “We have more than enough ammo. We’ll be good for a few days. Maybe more.”

That reminded Harry how heavy the sack was, and he painfully hefted it on his shoulders. “That’s true, but we both know this town well enough that it’s probably hiding something valuable and I’m not going to pass that probability up.” The reluctant man absently wrung his shotgun, and the tourist deeply sighed. “Please, James. If there’s something in here that will help my daughter, I need to find it. We’ll do a careful sweep and that’s it.”

He didn’t bother to hear another excuse. Harry pushed the ornate handle and opened the Lake View Hotel’s door to its dark, vacant lobby. The dismal light flooded the room and his shadow cast a stretched, ominous panel of black over the cabinet that stood in the middle of the floor, and all the way to the upholstered steps of the grand staircase. A small seating area gathered in the corner to his right, and the reception desk further back to the left. The walls were without stain or dust, and the patterned, fully carpeted floors were cleaner than ever.

Its spotless charm was not a comfort. The staircase led up to a hallway that was sheathed in black, and the far corners flanking the steps were sinister in their depth. Though there were windows along the entryway, the gloomy light of day didn’t appear to penetrate their dusty glass panels. 

All of this should have been ample warning to the curious that this was no friendly place to rest one’s head, or doggedly go poking around into rooms. To Harry, his desperation for one good thing in this haunted time capsule twisted the pervasive scene into a promising invitation.

Harry looked over his shoulder again. “If you’re going to stay out here, that’s fine. You can hang tight while I check it out.”

He waited. He was going to give James a lengthy ten seconds to make his decision. At eight, the unwilling young man ventured up the steps to meet him, and when they saw eye to eye on the landing, Harry witnessed the look of tangled regret and fear in those green eyes.

For a moment, Harry doubted his choice. There was a disturbance coming off James that challenged his intuition’s good intentions. Something evil, something undeniably and dangerously perverse and unholy, lurked in these walls. Harry lifted his chin. This whole town was chock full of evil. There were only differing variants of it. The hotel was simply the same tune on a different instrument.

“Thirty minutes, tops. It’ll go by fast. I promise. Now come on, we’re wasting daylight arguing about it.”

Harry gave the door another push and stepped inside. James entered after him as the door’s momentum granted him hands-free access. They stood side by side in the bleak grey daylight as it steadily withdrew and shadow tinged in red encompassed the room.

The father and the murderer faced the corrupt lobby of the Lake View Hotel as the door clicked closed.


	15. Nice Place You Got Here

“Okay, I gotta take a break from this,” Harry declared, painfully shrugging the backpack off and swinging it into a chair. An underhand toss put the pipe into the seat atop the bag. Yanking his leather jacket off as fast as he could manage without entanglement, he then flew it over the valuables like a blanket. He shook himself out, huffing, and pushed up the sleeves of his maroon sweater. “Fuck hell, I’m gonna die of heat stroke if I keep up like that. Whew. I’m roasting.”

He stretched his spine, leaning back, then relaxed and twisted from side to side. James looked on impassively. As Harry continued to stretch out, rolling his shoulders and rubbing where it was sore, he got a good look at a once-vibrant lobby. He wrinkled his nose and squinted into the dark. “Man. What a place, huh? This must’ve been bustling back in the day. Shame that it’s gotten like this. Shame that it’s _ here _,” he corrected, casting a glance at James. “Hey, didn’t you say you visited before? Did you stay here?”

Naturally, his pale guide looked away and began to meander to the staircase. Harry adjusted his rumpled sleeves and shook his head. “Of course, y’know, you don’t have to answer that,” he mumbled under his breath. Now that he’d sorted himself out, he dug out the rusty pipe caked in dried blood from beneath all his stuff and gave it an experimental swing. 

James heard a dull clatter behind him. He turned around to find Harry trying to twirl his weapon in his hand, much like how action heroes flourish theirs. This spiked annoyance, and he glared flatly at the older man’s impromptu, unguided lesson. Unbelievable. The clock was ticking, their seconds were precious, Heather’s safety was on the line, the dark was snapping at their heels and Harry was _ fooling around _. For a guy that was less than three miles away from the first big breakthrough in finding his daughter, he seemed glad to waste his time.

“I thought we were going to be in and out of here,” James said after Harry’s third failure. The Silent Hill veteran grunted, picking up his weapon and returning a similar glare.

“We are. Relax. I needed a moment to cool off.” A good mood was soured by the other man’s damned inability to have a little optimistic break. Harry tried not to let it get to him, and he grabbed his jacket and resignedly shouldered the backpack.

“Are you gonna turn on your flashlight?” Harry asked, as annoyed as James was. “It’s pretty dark in here.” 

White light beamed onto Harry and the man squinted, lifting his arm to block it out. This was going great. James was in a childish mood, Harry was tired and sore, and if they couldn’t get over their snippy passive-aggressiveness there were going to be more pressing problems that temporarily outweighed Heather. The light panned away from him and James’s feet thudded up the first two steps. 

Harry was kind of a mess. With the bag on his shoulder and his jacket over one arm, his weapon in the other hand, he was feeling like a useless pack mule. He sighed to himself as he tried to figure out his predicament. This was no way to start the investigation into the hotel. The pressure of time and his promise to make it a quick trip grappled with his stubborn distrust of James. Half of his struggle not to ask for help was due to that petty resentment and the other was because, though he was really entertaining the idea to a full audience, he couldn’t risk leaving the backpack anywhere to pick up after they were done.

It gave him a minor jolt when he looked up and found James uncomfortably close to him, his hand outstretched. Deadened eyes met those startled and wide, and they faced off with contrasting emotions: James looked impatiently expectant while Harry was perplexed and suspicious. Harry frowned at those pale fingers when they beckoned.

“Give me the backpack.”

Harry eyeballed him warily. “I got it. It’s fine.”

James waited. There was another pause while Harry awkwardly adjusted himself and his unwieldy cargo. 

“Your hands are full. You’re not going to be any help if you’re going to be carrying all of that.”

He was right, and how could Harry refute him? Reminding James that he didn’t trust him was not going to be helpful in the long run and could, in fact, make him vindictive. That in itself was a possibility so dire that it won over Harry’s apprehension and he handed the heavy pack to James.

It was heavier than anticipated. James let out a short breath as he briefly sagged by the weight of it, and then hefted it over one shoulder. Harry watched as the man went back to the stairs, fighting with the backpack and his shotgun as he got it on, and began the trudge once more.

Harry smiled. He indulged in a small piece of schadenfreude, already getting back his optimism, and pulled on his jacket. It was kind, and out of character (judging by his stunning personality over the past week), for James to offer his help. Of course, any and all offers were appreciated; he wasn’t ungrateful. But after all that James has put him through thus far, oh, it felt good to see him holding the short stick.

They were finally able to get back on track. Harry clicked his flashlight on, now that he had cooled off enough to put on his jacket, and joined James on the second floor. He felt fifty pounds lighter and energetic without his burden, and he rhythmically tapped his palm with his pipe. “Alright. Left or right?”

The way James sighed and gave an impatient little shake of his head told Harry that he was going to be calling the shots now. “Right, then,” he said and went to try the knob at the end of the hall. 

It yielded and the two of them came upon a smaller area. Harry sighed softly. The hotel looked enormous and its layout, if he had to judge by the hall they currently stood, was going to be a disorienting maze. The carpets were uniform and a little dizzying, strangely only having that effect now that they were in a more enclosed space. At his left was a station with its curtain drawn and a bell on its lonesome on the counter. 

When one finds a bell, one must ding it. Against all rules of stealth, Harry gently tapped the brass button and smiled a little at its short, clear ring. James flinched and stared at him and his, truthfully, idiotic boldness. It was confirmed: Harry Mason was a child.

“What do you think you’re doing? Don’t ring that,” James snapped at a hush, watching an unconcerned Harry peek behind the curtain. “There _ are _ things roaming these halls and I’d _ really _ prefer it if they didn’t come running.”

“Think they’ll take my coat for safekeeping until we’re ready to go?” he replied airily, crossing past James to prod the bathroom door open with his pipe. He tilted his head to get a view without going further inside. “Hm. Modest.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you,” James frowned. “You say—“

“Sometimes I wonder about you, too,” Harry murmured, finished with his lazy inspections to wander down the hall adjacent to the coat room. James glared after him, but followed.

“You say you’ve been here before,” he continued from his interruption. “And you go around making noise and trying your best to be as careless as you can.”

Harry tried a knob to a locked door, and moved on. “You ever heard of auto-pilot?”

James gave him a flat look. “This is your auto-pilot?”

“In a sense.” The next door was open to his curiosity and Harry found the very tiny reading room. He visibly brightened and beelined for the shelved nook and its, rather sadly, meager offerings. James hovered in the doorway, his annoyance simmering with piqued interest at a rather ominous response.

“What sense is that?”

Harry hummed as he perused the collection. He wanted to pick out a few books about the history of Silent Hill, and as he pulled titles to that boasted just that, he found that they had suffered inexplicable water damage. Coupled with James’s bite, he was starting to have trouble keeping his energy up. That man was such a drain.

“Hey, James,” he said, turning to look at him. “Can we not do this? I just want to take a look around and try to find something that’s going to help us find Heather. Okay? I don’t want to be here, either. This place gives me the fucking creeps, beautiful as it is, and despite how I may have acted about it before, I want to get in and out and on our way. So let’s cut the bullshit and do what we came in here for.”

James set his jaw. Harry was right, yet again. The older man had a way of making him feel small and juvenile, and James did not care for it. He felt a twinge of guilt for getting worked up over the little things since the moment they set foot on the hotel property, but how could James be blamed? The Lake View Hotel was more than just any landmark. This was another domain constructed by masons of hell, and it was all Harry’s goddamn fault that they were walking right into a trap. Yet, at the same time, the veteran had a point. An agreement had been made. It was wise for both of them (for their current and future safety, and any trust that happens to exist between them) to see it through. James kept quiet while Harry had his look around, chose a couple undamaged books off the shelves, and picked at the pamphlets for defunct attractions. 

An open medical book lay on the desk. Harry skimmed it, turning a couple of pages, then checked its front for the title. For some reason he felt inclined to take it - it was in great condition - though for now it’d have to stay here. Maybe he’ll come back for this. It felt important. Harry didn’t know how to feel about the mystery of needing to take a medical book of all things. He drew his lips inward, and closed the book with a dull thud.

With nothing else of interest, he squeezed past James and stepped behind him to load the two books into the backpack. James stood obedient but tepid towards the older man, and Harry could feel it. Neither spoke, and that allowed them to move on without too much active friction.

The double doors by the restrooms led them around a corner and to a black stretch of rooms. Harry groaned softly and bravely went to repeat their tried and true process of checking the doors.

None were interested in opening; not even 204 or 202, of which James had already canvassed long before. That oddly tickled his fears and when they departed to return to the lobby, Harry noticed the stairwell leading to the third floor. He took two steps, then stopped. The entry to the floor was gated and, as it appeared, locked. He slowly descended and frowned up the stairs. There was a chilly foreboding coming from what lay beyond the gate. Harry had no interest in testing limits at the moment, and he glanced back at James. “I got a real bad feeling about that,” he told his companion, shaking his head. “I don’t think we’re gonna head up there right now.”

As Harry heaved open the door, James heard her call for him, through a throat overflowing with water.

The other side was unhelpful, too. Doors that James remembered accessing were closed for them. The sweep was beginning to look ideal in terms of their time spent here, though Harry was looking more disappointed with every barrier. 

They returned to the ground floor. There were doors flanking the staircase that had yet to be searched. Seeing as James was going to be little to no help, Harry stalled in making his decision by taking first real notice of the cabinet that stood in the middle of the floor. “Music boxes?” he asked it curiously, peering at the little figurines. There appeared to be six altogether, placed on a ring that could rotate to present three well-known fantasy heroines at a time. It was charming and naturally, Harry wanted to know if it worked and if he could listen to their song. It’d have to go unheard (and James hoped it’d stay that way), for there were footsteps running across the upstairs hall and the door closed loudly in its wake.

Harry spun around and James turned with a sharp jolt. There was a moment spent dumb and spooked, then Harry was running up the stairs. James’s short burst of breath was resigned and he took off after his charge.

The footsteps took them back through the hall they’d just inspected. Harry automatically propped the door open for James and ventured further inside, holding his breath as he listened. There was a sharp metal creaking and slam, and the footsteps ran away. 

They came from the stairwell. Harry pushed past the younger man and took two steps at a time to the landing. James, doused in dread, looked up at a man whose shock was written on his face, and his body tense with trepidation.

“The gate..” Swallowing his hesitations, Harry ascended past the fence that had kept him away, and onto the third floor.

James could have thrown up. This was no coincidence, but was it ever? He was forced to follow Harry, and found him anxiously checking every door lining the walls. The conduit stood at the head of the stairs and laid his eyes upon a door that greeted any soul to take the stairs: Room 312. 

The door accused him. It said, _ Have you come to dig the knife deeper? _ and his spine became a freezing ice pick. Harry in the neighboring hall (those doors are open now?) pulled him away from the memory of a fated vacation and took him into an area that mirrored the floors below. James’s hands were damp on his gun. He looked on in a dumb stupor while the desperate man tried every knob, and attempted to forcibly make them appease his demands. None of them were going to open. They were mere decorations on the wall. In his frustration, Harry pounded his fist on the last one and ran his hand through his hair.

_ “Fuck!” _

The widower watched the father rapidly tap his weapon into his calf. Harry was thinking, and when he got an idea, he strode to James, a wild hopefulness in his eyes.

“This is a hotel, there is a reception desk downstairs,” he quickly explained. “They’ve got keys, they _ have _ to have keys. Stay right here, I’m going to go look. Two minutes, tops,” Harry promised, patting James’s shoulder, and his heavy footfalls sounded like receding drums in his ears.

James Sunderland was left alone on the third floor of The Lake View Hotel.


	16. Forget Me Not(s)

His flashlight turned itself off.

The unfathomable dark swallowed James in droning silence. He knew there was a window at the end of the hall but its panels had become black and opaque. There was an absence of sensation. He did and didn’t know which way was up, which way was down, or where he was anymore. 

Silent Hill had its eyes upon them again. James had known that this would happen if they stepped foot in here. It was sooner than he’d hoped, but not expected. 

The silence pierced his head and scraped the inside of his skull.

_ Hey, James! I know you can hear me, you worthless, good-for-nothing coward! How does it feel now to get the short end of the stick? Are you scared? Huh? I bet you are. You didn’t really know what it was like to be alone until you got here. You thought you had it all figured out. You spend all your time in Silent Hill and this doesn’t even compare to what you’ve felt before. Ha! I bet you feel like a little worm. Well, good! That’s due punishment, James! Not only for what you did to everyone you met, but for what you did to ME! _

It was as loud as being in the thick of a parade. James closed his eyes and heard Eddie’s laughter bounce like a tennis ball around in his head. Eddie’s voice was greasy and boorish; high pitched, tonally unstable, and whose cockiness was unwarranted - like a hormonal teenager. He didn’t miss it, and hearing its echoes now was a moment too soon. A coward, he called him. He’d called James a coward before and the sniveling, gluttonous crybaby neglected to see the hypocrisy. 

_ You make me sick, James! _

James knew he was spineless. This was no headlining news. _ You make me sick too, Eddie. I make myself sick. _His lips twisted in self-contempt and opened his eyes to nothingness. The familiar dull, weighted net of shame rooted him in place. He wasn’t going anywhere, even if he wanted to. The Lake View Hotel and its depraved master hammered another nail into the coffin and split its wall.

_ It's all your fault you’re here, anyway. Weren’t you the one to tell me I shouldn’t go around killing people for no reason? Well how do those words taste in your mouth now? It’s really no big deal - just like I said. _

His arms slumped. The shotgun became a burden in his hands. It threatened to drop from his fingers and the backpack asked his spine to snap; it didn’t care which way. From the far, far away end of the impossibly long hall came the reverberation of little feet running. They pounded the floor as though they were an elephant’s charge. James felt the ground shake. Through the density of his torment, he recognized that the stride was impossible. Nothing could be both ten feet away and over a hundred. They acted as thunder and the noise strained his ears, but they were rapidly gaining, and taunted from afar. Eddie’s braying laughter had faded.

A surge of strength brushed past his legs and he struggled to clutch the shotgun. He felt the air whip through the loose fit of his jeans as it raced ‘round and ‘round his dead body. A pair of forces ran in tandem and in the vastness before him, the tiny feet sprinted forever.

_ Why’d you do it? Why’d you do it? You’re a liar! I was gonna have her! I was gonna be happy, and you took that away from me! We were gonna be a family! I never liked you, I never ever liked you but Mary said you were okay! She told me to trust you, and Mary lied too! You both lied! You both lied, you lied, you lied, you lied! I hope you drown, James! _ her horribly betrayed voice wailed as he felt her hands shove his hamstrings with all her might. He stumbled, his feet catching his balance under the heaviness of his body and the sack against his vertebrae. _ I hate you! _ she cried, her fists beating on his arm, his stomach, his thigh, his numb limbs. _ You’re selfish! You’re mean! You didn’t want Mary and she didn’t want you either! _

_ I hate you, James! _

_ james……… _

_ I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you you LIAR you KILLER you _

_ james…………… _

_ YOU COWARD you FART-FACE YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME JAMES you dumb mean AND A old CORPSE CAN’T LAUGH _

The hall is so dark there is no right side up body is like a mountain of sand and rot she’s beating her fists she’s bruising his flesh he’s chortling in his ear he’s breathing his hot nauseating stink on his neck she’s grabbing for his coat and yanking and yanking trying to pull him down trying to beat on his head he reeks of vomit and pizza and death and bloated and ready to burst cadavers she’s kicking him and screaming and crying and

_ james……………… _

_ Where is my knife? _

The flashlight clicked back on.

Harry was out of breath when he made it up to the third floor again. He tried to catch it as he trudged towards James, who stood in the middle of the great stretch, and dangled two keys on their rings and plastic markers. “You won’t believe it!” he huffed, and swallowed his dry throat. “302 and 319 were downstairs. What a stroke of luck, huh?”

He was grinning as he passed James, but the joy on his face diminished when he saw that the younger man had that worrisome sheen. Harry paused, studying his bleak face and glazed eyes. His knee-jerk reaction wanted to ask if he was okay. If he asked, he’d receive a lie or nothing at all, which served just as well as one. There was a key in his hand that would open one of these doors and his heart was still thudding from his haste and his excitement. They had a time limit and Harry had no choice but to ignore the problem. 

“Okay, 302.. we’re in.. great. It’s back here.” Harry eagerly pocketed the key for the other wing and slid the other into the lock. It opened on the turn and he beamed back at a man who stood unmoving. “C’mon.”

The key went back to its sibling. The room was small, housing a double bed and a duffel bag sitting on the blankets, a dresser with a TV, a cafe table and two chairs against the corner, and two night stands complete with lamps and a phone. At his immediate left was the bathroom. For what was expected of Silent Hill, the room was abnormally pristine. It was eerie. He prodded the ajar bathroom door open with his pipe and found it empty.

The duffel bag was the point of interest. Harry lay his weapon on the bed and found the bag open, and as James finally decided to join him, he picked up its only contents: two cassette tapes.

Harry frowned and sighed heavily, turning them over to look for a description. There was none. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I hate this damn town. You know, I never missed anything about this place,” he griped, “but one thing I _ really _ didn’t miss were the puzzles. _ Why puzzles?” _

James shrugged. “To keep your brain healthy while you’re rotting away here.” Their eyes met, and an appreciative smile for the humor crossed Harry’s face. “To be fair,” the resident continued, “this is our.. first riddle? In the scheme of things so far, we’re not doing too bad.”

The tourist groaned again and waved the cassettes at him reproachfully. “Don’t _ say _ that! Jesus Christ, James! You know these walls have ears!”

Harry tucked the tapes into his inner jacket pocket and dug around in the bag in case he’d missed something. His search turned up null and so he dipped into his pocket for the key to 319. “Alright. Guess we’re going to the other wing. It better be open.”

James stood aside for Harry to pass. “Or what?”

“Or what, what?”

“Or, what. You sounded like you were going to make a threat.”

The grey-streaked head turned and brown eyes glimpsed back at James. It appeared that whatever had shaken him was no longer an issue. “You want me to make a threat?”

“No, I said you sounded like you were going to.”

“I’ll consider it when and if we get into another annoying problem,” Harry replied, leading the way to the adjacent wing. He didn’t notice it before, but the air smelled mustier. And perhaps it was because he’d cooled down from his race through the hotel, but it also seemed much colder. His hands were chilly, like forgetting one’s gloves on a fall day. It was easy to write it all off on Silent Hill playing its games, and so Harry did, in favor of putting any more thought into it.

Maybe he should have been putting more thought into the question of why the first puzzle was curiously easy. The hall doors were open and 319 was waiting for them. Moreover, a cassette player was on the bed just as the bag had been, like someone had kindly laid it all out for them. It was way too easy, and neither one of them were going to dwell on it.

The first nondescript cassette was chosen and the machine rewound side A. 

There was nothing to hear on side A. Harry skipped through the tape and found it blank all the way through. It was ejected, turned over, and clicked on. 

Side B had much more to offer.

Harry and James gathered close around the player, the father sluggishly taking a seat on the edge of the bed. They stared at the old device as a man’s gruff, weathered voice spoke through distortion and static, overshadowing the unintelligible echoes of a young girl. 

[_ .. the case years ago.. I went— after searching—out success, I decided.. try to find.. I had missed —couldn’t.. anything— no use in.. didn’t tell.. —r— know— working.. — something disturbing and strange—approached— looking for a girl — I need to go to Silent Hill— .. tracked.. —d— that w —all these roads.. —possible.. disappeared and.. —with it? — hate to take.. job.. wants her poten—.. can’t.. anyone.. money is too tight.. —er Mason, god help.. soul. _] 

The tape ended. Harry’s breath was shallow; his heart repeatedly leapt to his throat. There was no denying that whoever that man was, he knew Heather. 

Harry fumbled to eject the tape and shove the next one in. Side A was chilling. A woman’s voice whispered into the dense air. Though he turned the volume knob as far right as it could go, whatever she was saying was muted and indiscernible. It didn’t help that she, too, was being overlapped by another woman, making their secrets too cluttered to understand.

The last hope was side B. They cut in to a conversation that continued from the first side: two muffled women whose contradicting speech made it impossible to hear their dialogue. A third of the way through they were joined by a child; a little girl, her sound two hairs louder than the others, albeit too quiet to identify. 

That was the end of their findings. They stared at the machine, disquieted. An intense silence hung in the wake of the recordings that made Harry’s head feel tight. He popped open the player and numbly took the cassette out. He held them both, rattled, in his hands. 

These tapes posed more questions and held no solutions. All that it gave them was that there was a man that was looking for Heather, if he interpreted it right. This stranger could have very well stolen her and signed a contract for her head. If so, then Heather was in worse danger than he imagined. Harry was not only sickened by the idea; he was furious. Whoever this monster was, he was more detestable than any of the abominations that wandered the town. 

Morals in exchange for money was dishonorable. Since the deal was made, the stranger was undoubtedly corrupt beyond help. From what they could make out of his rambling garble, Harry now suspected the Order had a lot to do with Heather’s capture. The longer he thought of it, the more the pieces jammed together. If understood correctly, someone hired the man to look for and take Heather Mason to Silent Hill. He even had the audacity to pray for her soul. The only logical conclusion then was that it was, in huge part, his fault. 

But what desperate son of a bitch would take blood money? Didn’t he know what the Order was capable of? _ That was his innocent little girl. _Harry put his everything into giving Heather a normal life. For seventeen years he kept her far, far away from Silent Hill and as safe from its reach as he could. Of course, there was no real way to figure if he was doing a good job at it. If it never came for them at all for seventeen goddamn years, didn’t Harry have a right to assume he was successfully avoiding it? Perhaps he’d gotten a little too comfortable and brazen. No, he never truly rested well knowing that Silent Hill would always lurk in their shadows: and that was his first unspoken reason why Heather going to college scared him shitless.

Harry had failed her once. A sick, greedy predator had hauled her back to where it all began. _ Of course. Right back home, where it all began, and this time Harry Mason was going to dismantle the Order for good. _

Whenever he finds this crooked man, on his vow, he will skin him alive and leave him to the dogs.

James watched Harry get to his feet and finger the cassettes. The older man was frowning as he looked between them and the player. He was clearly debating whether or not he should take it all, and he was forced to accept that he had to leave the player behind. James waited while the tapes were stored safely in the backpack and once zipped, he eyed the distraught father.

He had seen that grim, haunted look before in the mirror many times before. Harry appeared very far away and lost in a traumatic time long ago. The author’s eyes were unfocused and blank. James pitied him. This was no state to be in knowing what was at stake, but he knew that Harry needed to process. For his sake, James would allow him a few minutes. Any more than that and they could be facing consequences.

James stood in silence as he watched his ward fall away to his memories.

Harry was revisiting Old Silent Hill. The hunt for his sweet little Cheryl raced before his eyes: the mazes of intestines strung on chain-link like perverse Christmas tinsel, dangerous streets where skinned dogs and flying monsters chased him, a town suddenly turned industrial and rusted red. He’d become accustomed to the flashbacks and lately, they reduced their frequency to twice every few months. Since he arrived, they’d returned in full blast. Perhaps he’d have found irony in experiencing it again while also standing in Silent Hill long before, if Harry hadn’t been actively trying to ignore them. 

It was different this time. In the mad dash to save his daughter he was so focused on her that he temporarily forgot a very important piece of the town. He was disgusted that it took over a perceived week to remember the Order at all. Why hadn’t he thought about this before? The Order played an integral part in the machinations of Silent Hill. Hell, it even laid out a glaring clue to it on his first day! Harry only now recalled the enormous sigil burned into the street that tightened his head and strained his eyes. That should have been immediate proof that the cult was playing maestro to Heather’s abduction and whatever atrocities they had planned.

Harry was absolutely livid. He’d wasted an enormous amount of time running around thinking there were no leads. How many times did he pass by the sigil and ignorantly wondered about it? His shortcomings were piling on by the second and he cursed himself for every single one.

Taking all that into account, in his head Harry rewound not only the found recording but the phone call that turned his life around on a dime. 

Clarity came through. Heather’s broken words had strongly hinted that she was being stolen away to Silent Hill. Not even hinted - confirmed. Absolute panic had forfeited his critical thinking and kept it caged until this moment, when the Machiavellian plot unravelled like a dropped ball of string. Harry was outraged at himself for not once returning to the very crucial moment where it all began, but now..

Now it was all plain to see. The Order was alive and not well. Of course they were at the bottom of this. Nobody else would be.

And so the first puzzle was solved. Harry felt no joy in it, for it should’ve fallen into place long ago. The whispering women had to be the Order. It was no question that the man was connected to them. He was sent to find Heather and bring her back, and by James’s word, he already did. Silent Hill was a nefarious place that wanted the blood of its reborn daughter and it was on the verge of success. 

Harry was delusional to think it would be anything else, and he swore to kill _ all _ of them with his bare goddamn hands.

_ But what of the little girl on the tape? _ His reasoning in mind, it took him back to a vital part of the order that centered around a special child who was to bring paradise by her death. It was she that gave him the daughter he raised as Heather, of whom he adored and also feared. 

She was Alessa. Harry’s blood ran cold. Connecting the Order to his purpose then and now naturally cycled back to the sacrificial daughter of Silent Hill. Should all this be true, he had to assume that Heather was going to be used to complete the ritual at last. 

Yeah, no: Harry Mason was going to make sure that didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

The author stewed in his racing thoughts. He’d outright forgotten where he was and who he was with. The clock ticked on as he battled the past. James had to break him out of it. 

“Harry,” he said. He waited. It appeared he went unheard, so he raised his voice. “Harry,” he sternly repeated. The father lifted his head and fixed preoccupied eyes to his guide. James lowered his voice to normal, but didn’t remove the tone. “What are we going to do?”

Harry glanced to the side. “We should go,” he answered distractedly. “I think we’ve found everything we could.”

The affirmation kicked him back into gear. The Mason patriarch led the missing Sunderland through the hall (and past 312, where only James heard her knocking forlornly on the other side of the door) and down to the lobby.

They were met with the cruel notion that they’d botched their chances. Where there had been some foggy illumination in the lobby, it now was replaced by full darkness. The change dropped James’s lead heart to the pit of his stomach. The very thing they were trying to avoid lay beyond the doors and he knew, he _ knew _ they never would have made it out in time. When Harry thrust open the door, what they predictably found heralded enmity unlike ever before. 

Beyond the steps, the lawn disappeared in the shroud of black. Their flashlights shone as far as they could and still could not hope to penetrate it. Night had fallen, and Harry’s promise was broken. The two men stood in the threshold and felt mutual contempt for his lie as the darkness held them in derision. They were trapped, and that was that.

Harry took a deep breath and closed the door.


	17. I Know What I Said, And I Said What I Mean

“**_FUCK!_**”

Harry stormed from the door and threw the pipe to the ground. The weapon clattered and bounced away as he balled up his fists and pushed them into his forehead. “God, _FUCK!_ No, no _no_, you piece of SHIT town!”

James frowned after him. Hot anger shot straight to his head. “What did I tell you, huh? I knew we’d get caught up in here when the darkness set in. It was stupid to come in here in the first pl—“

“Don’t you start with me,” Harry warned, whirling around and pointing a threatening finger at him. “I was right, we found something useful in here and if we hadn’t given it a shot we wouldn’t’ve found it, so don’t you get into it with me about this.”

“Oh yeah? Yeah, sure, we found a hell of a lot on tapes that give us absolutely nothing,” James bit back, sarcastically tossing up his arm. “Harry, there’s jack _shit_ on those tapes! It’s full of whispering and—“

“There’s a fucking _man_ on those tapes who knows who Heather is!” he yelled at him, the delicate strings on his patience beginning to unthread. “There is someone _looking_ for her and I don’t know who it is and that means she’s in even worse danger than I thought. You know why? Those women on the tapes; I thought about it, and the fucking Order is behind all this.” James furrowed his brows. He seemed confused, but Harry was too incensed. “My guess is that _they’re_ the ones who know this guy and he’s being _paid_ to bring her back and goddammit, James, they’re going to fucking **_kill her!_**”

James shook his head and shrugged impatiently. “What are you _talking_ about? What Order?”

“_The Order!_ What do you mean you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I’ve never heard of an Order. This means nothing to me, Harry. What the fuck is the Order?”

The dealer, apparently, had been outright fired. Harry stared incredulously. “Are you serious? You don’t know about the Order? They _run_ Silent Hill,” he said, and James drew an odd shadow on his face. “They’re a cult. They have gods and sacrificial rituals and shit like that. They’re the ones that stole Cheryl from me in the first place. Those delusional and perverse assholes were going to _kill_ _my daughter_ to raise some hell god and bring ‘paradise’ to the world.” The older man looked disgusted that all of this appeared to be news to James. “How the hell don’t you know about them?”

James’s arms lifted again, exasperated. “I don’t know, I’ve never met anyone that claimed to be from a cult or any of that, Harry. I honestly and seriously had no idea.”

Harry had a hard time wrapping his mind around that. James could be lying to him. He was a convincing actor, after all. The better part of him told him to believe the resident, so he gave it a shot - though not without some digging. “I thought you were a part of the town. You said you’ve been here awhile. You hear and feel it all the time, so how did this just pass by you?”

James grit his teeth. “And I also said that I’m not told everything. I’m not some omnipresent god here. I don’t _see_ or _know _everything, though I thought I had a pretty good idea. This town is one big fucking mystery, even to me. If you hadn’t noticed, I was confined to South Vale,” he reminded him spitefully. “This is my first time out of there since who knows how long. I’ve _never_ heard of a cult order. I don’t know what to tell you, Harry. I guess Silent Hill didn’t have it out for me that way.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry rasped under his breath, pushing his hands through his hair again. “Great. Unbelievable. You don’t know about the cult. That is not going to help us at all.”

James regarded him distastefully. He was getting very tired of Harry’s tone. “And that’s my fault, how?”

Harry blew a sharp sigh. “It’s not, it just means that we’re a little more fucked than I originally thought.”

He deserved a gold medal for containing himself.“Yeah, fantastic. Since you know more about this, what do we do now?”

“God dammit, _I don’t fucking know!_” Harry bristled, losing every ounce of his patience. “Why are you up my ass about this right now? We found one solid fucking clue to a puzzle that we can’t even solve right now and you _know_ that this is how this town works. We get one, _one_ fucking crumb,” he seethed, “and then we have to run around like headless donkeys until this place takes pity on us and gives us another crummy morsel to stew on until it decides we’re too pathetic to do anything else. Why do _I_ have to explain this to you?”

Harry ran his hands repeatedly over his hair and paced. He struggled to keep control of bottled, pent-up rage. “It’s insane that this entire time you know _nothing_ about a whole fucking cult that runs the place and is a huge deal to the whole way this all works. I would’ve thought that you’d know this place top to bottom and in and out by now. I can’t ever tell if you’re lying to me or not! I can barely get a straight answer out of you. You have been stuck here, this whole time, and not _once_ did Silent Hill clue you in to an entire religious demon god worship. That just seems like complete bullshit.” He shot a glare at the conduit. “How the fuck long have you even—“

“Don’t you fucking talk down to me,” James cut off, taking jarred, hostile steps towards him. “This is _my_ town. I know the ins and outs, I know how it works _for me._ You’re not getting it through your thick fucking skull. I have been trapped in South Vale for god knows how long and for all I knew, what I was experiencing was how it worked everywhere else. You _fucking_ idiot.”

The cask of bitterness leaked. “I didn’t lie to you,” James continued. “You’re gonna have to get over it. And I’m not lying about this either: I _am_ this town. I know my part better than you. Don’t come at me, patronizing me like I’m a child,” he snarled. “You don’t know half of what Silent Hill is and does, so don’t you _dare_ try to treat me like I’m some ignorant newbie here, just because it never told me about a cult.”

They stood at a tightly coiled standoff, like attack dogs on flimsy leashes. Harry balled his fists, his jaw clenched and teeth bared behind his curled lip. James tipped down his chin and controlled himself enough to speak as calmly as he could.

“I’m sorry you’re here and that your daughter is missing and there’s a cult I didn’t know about and that you have to do this whole song and dance all over again. That fucking sucks, I get it. But you are _not_ in control of this rodeo, Harry, and you are _not_ going to even try to lecture me about shit you don’t know and berate me for things I legitimately didn’t have any idea about. I’m sick and tired of your attitude,” he snapped. “You are out of your league with me. I fucking live and _breathe_ this town. I may have lived a totally different life of Silent Hill, which really fucking bothers me to be very honest, but I _do _know that you are _hopeless_ without me this time. Need I remind you what I am? What this place made me? I _am _Silent Hill and you need to goddamn thankful I’m even helping you out in the first place!”

“Yeah, and that’s _fucking crazy, James!_” Harry insistently shouted back. _“How are you here?!_ That is _terrifying_ to hear you say that you ARE the town! That fucks me up **so _much!_** All of the bullshit you’ve put me through so far doesn’t top that that is some _horrific shit!”_

The pressure in the room became caustic. Harry wouldn’t drop the most delicate subject he knew and every time he brought it up he struck the flint and tinder over the kindling. A spark jumped too close. “Are you ever going to get over this?” James hissed. “Deal with it, Harry. I don’t owe you _shit_ about my situation here. You’re lucky I even told you as much as I did and you know, I’ve already regretted it, so suck it up, be grateful you know what you know, and get off my _ass_.”

Harry drew a scowl. “Okay, alright then, so tell me, is Silent Hill telling you _anything?_” he countered, throwing his arms out to the sides. “Anything at all! Does it know we’re on to its bullshit? How high and dry are we, James, or are you gonna keep withholding things from me until you feel like I get to know?”

James thrust his hand into his hair. Pain and strife disfigured his face and curled his shoulders as he yanked on his scalp. “Harry, I swear to fucking god,” the resident growled, “if you keep bringing this up I’ll either kill you, or leave you here to figure all this out yourself.”

“You’ll kill me,” Harry repeated flatly. “Right. Great. If Silent Hill hadn’t fucked you up so bad maybe I’d say you don’t look the type. But then again, that’s what they said about Ted Bundy.”

James lifted his head. “Seriously?”

There was a long, weary sigh. “Okay, maybe Ted Bundy was a little too much—“

“You wanna talk about fucked up, Harry? **You’re _really_** fucked up.” He ripped the hand from his hair and closed their distance to jut his finger within inches of Harry’s face. “You’ve got some _serious_ control issues, you’re nosy, overbearing, over-fucking-protective, coddling, arrogant, and you’re unreasonably obsessed with knowing every single little detail that you don’t have _any_ right to know. You’re an entitled prick and you have _no _reason to be.” To his credit, the older man looked embarrassed -guilty, even. That wasn’t enough to stop James from his tirade.

“You don’t see what I see, and I see a guy that’s probably a doormat on the outside, judging by the way you’re too fucking soft for this place. Maybe you’ve been here before, maybe you’ve dealt with some horrific shit because you are pretty fucked up about it, but from my time here I’ve learned that you are not the kind of person that should be here and I’ll say this right now— _no one_ should be here but me, but the people who _have_ been here have a personality for it and _no! _I won’t elaborate on that, but my point is that you, as a person, no matter what Silent Hill has done to you in the past, you are not going to survive your second round here if you can’t harden up and throw away every single amount of your caring about anyone, or anything, other than your daughter. _Fuck_ the cult stuff. _You_ know how they work so sack up, tell me what we’re dealing with, and no matter what, you have to _listen_ to me. I don’t care whether or not you trust me. To make this work, you’re going to have to work with me here so I can do _my_ part in getting you out. I’m not your friend. I’m your last and only hope. Don’t forget you are on _my_ territory, so get your head out of your ass, get your daughter, and _get the fuck out of my town. _Is that _clear_, Mason?”

Harry was taken aback. Being addressed by his last name was surprisingly cold. Shock replaced ire and the aggression in his stance extinguished like water on a fire. Unbeknownst to James, he viewed that change as disrespectful to the point of callous. And unfortunately, it hurt all the same, and so left Harry suddenly silent.

On the other side, James’s heat was also simmering. Harry had backed down on the turn of a dime and it was disorienting, to say the least. His silence was easily taken as a white flag, however the betrayed look on his face struck an unusual pang of guilt in James’s chest. This round was won, and he was disappointed to find that he couldn’t even feel smug about it.“Do we understand each other?”

“Yeah.” He sounded weathered. “We do.”

James watched Harry turn away. His shoulders had sunk and his head lowered in shame. That display brought back a bushel of anger and James fought to keep it unlit. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone sulk like this before, and it slammed down his defenses.

He’d realized too late in his life that this behavior was a manipulation tactic. By saying his piece, or even having strong feelings, people had made him feel cruel for speaking up. It had worked and shut him up back then. Now he had a place where the floor was always open to him, and where Harry was not allowed to pull that same crap on him too.

Even so, James could read a room. There was no point in picking bones. What was said was said and damage had been done.

Harry retrieved the pipe. He swung it a little as a sorry attempt to restore his mood and felt nothing other than defeat. He’d lost his temper and crossed all boundaries he knew, and for his troubles, he was read the riot act. It was humiliating, well deserved, and overdue. In hindsight, James had been enormously patient with him this whole time, and he’d had his head too far up his ass to notice. Everyone had a breaking point and Harry got his just deserts.

All the things he didn’t want to hear were laid out on a table like spoiling food. James was right to put Harry in his place. This wasn’t, hadn’t, and never will be, his territory. Being a survivor of Silent Hill seventeen years ago gave him no authority against a man chained here for years longer. Without James, he may not have made it this far already - or even will. Regardless, the concept of whether or not Harry could have done this alone was rooted in stubborn pride, and that was the hubris that James served as a main course.

He’d called him soft. His years had hardened him in their own way, but his sensitivity towards other people never did. James saw it as weakness. Maybe it was, but it was simply impossible for Harry to kill that side of him, not even here. Yes, he had trouble reeling it back; he could admit to that. James triggered compassion that was hated and defined as overbearing. He was likely right. Harry didn’t know when to stop being a caretaker, and he was doing more harm than good.

The embarrassment didn’t end there. He’d been childish to want to make a friend in James and in retrospect, it was _stupid_. Neither were here to make friends. Harry craved companionship to cope as he again waded in the acidic waters of Silent Hill. Not only craved, but _needed_. Now _that_ was weakness. He didn’t want to be left alone and James’s threat sounded sincere. The man was crucial to his, and Heather’s, survival, and if Harry wanted to keep their chances high, he’d have to let go of his pitiful desire. It all boiled down to the simple fact that he was scared.

So evidently, James had been right: Harry was too soft for this place.

Overlooking all that, he should be as grateful as James said for his help, divided as it was. The man walked the tightrope between charity and begrudging duty. For him, James was building a rickety bridge, and he resented Harry and the job. He’d said himself that he was doing him a favor. Harry had no choice but to step precariously over its holes and decaying wood. Heather was waiting for him on the other side, just as Cheryl had.

Their reasons were different yet the goal was the same: get out of Silent Hill.

Harry sucked in and released a sigh. “Well, since we’re gonna be holed up in here for a while, might as well take a look at the rest of the place.”

James rolled his shoulder. The backpack felt heavy again. Though he guessed it was mutual that they’d’ve liked to separate and cool off, it was implausible. Harry had made a daring and stupid decision before and that would be the last time he would do it.

Not to mention, he had not fully recovered from the hotel’s attack on the third floor. There was little doubt that would be its only instance; rather, it was an appetizer - at least for James.

He shot a glance at his ward. Harry had no clue what was coming to him. Call him deplorable, but James was curious to see what Harry thought he’d hidden from Silent Hill. This was an opportunity to _intimately _get to know its return visitor. This also meant that his own demons were likely to be revealed before a man eager to learn about him, and of course, he had to plan his tactics against his questioning. It had all night to play with them. Time will surely tell.

And so they silently agreed to forget the whole debacle in favor of making it through the night.

“Fine.”

The door on the left flank of the staircase was chosen. It let them into a hall that was once inviting and cozy. A standing sign to their right advertised “Cafe Toluca” and its fresh brewed coffee and specialty bakery. Directly in front of them, a plaque was mounted on the wall. It read “Restaurant Lake Shore” and had clearly been a pride of the establishment. The dining room was far more interesting to Harry, and he was relieved to find the doors were open.

However expected, Harry still felt bummed when a nice place saw degradation. Nearly all the tables and chairs were pushed into corners. There were a few sets that were lonely and waiting for the lunch rush, their surfaces tinted by dust. A sliding glass door would have bathed the room in dull light and made it seem like a real restaurant, but the pitch blackness outside made it more like a mausoleum. The planters dividing the room held forever-green ivy, though they appeared to have aged brown. The room was filled with ghosts of memories made, remembered, and forgotten. As was with so many locations here in Silent Hill, it gave Harry a sense of disquieted loneliness.

There was something important here. In the right corner behind the door was a black grand piano. Harry visibly brightened. “No way,” he whispered in awe, and gingerly placed the pipe on the ashy surface. The space between the piano and the wall was a little tight, and when he sat down, the bench creaked and drew James’s attention. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as it looked. He wore a big, warm smile on a face that had been blemished by turmoil, and James felt a fleck of relief to see it return.

On the same token, his stomach twisted all the more remembering who had been behind that piano before.

Harry ran his hands over the ivory keys. “This poor thing,” he murmured. “You don’t deserve to be left here all alone with no one to play you, huh.” He stroked the raised black eharmonics and softened his smile. “I wonder if it’s still in tune.”

James sighed and looked away. The clash of Laura’s unnatural chord was duller in his head now. He moved towards the glass doors, not to look out at the abyss beyond, but to wonder if the picture she’d painted in the dirt was still there. In this poor light, and the reflection of his flashlight glaring on the glass, he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to see if it was actually intact. For the sake of his regret surrounding the missing brat, James bent to try to find the outline of her poorly drawn cat— then shot straight up on the first fumbling notes and chord from the piano.

He spun around to stare at the man in the corner chuckling to himself. “Ah, let’s try that again,” Harry said softly, rolling his head and shoulders. He replaced his hands on the keyboard while James stood dumbfounded. Harry had some gall by getting behind that piano. For one, noise meant attraction. As demonstrated before, Harry liked to make noise, and this was a bigger noise that James was not eager to hear. Two, it acted like a museum piece: look but don’t touch.

Annoyance had a few things to say to Harry, and they disappeared from James’s tongue. What emerged from the piano was not noise. Somber music - _music! _\- resonated from old strings. An aged pedal thudded hollowly under the use of a sole guided by muscle memory, but did not take away from the leisurely, dreamlike song that filled the room. James stood stone still, lips parted. Musical tranquility floated through the restaurant, banishing the shadows in the corners and bringing peace to James’s head.

He’s mesmerized. It’s been eons since he heard music. Laura’s prank on him long ago didn’t count, of course. She meant to scare him and it worked, and he still heard the clang in his head. (It was softer these days. He’s not startled by it anymore.) This gently haunting song would undoubtedly replace that memory of her, that snotty little brat. (Good riddance.)

He watched Harry play. The tune was familiar, though he couldn’t place the name. It was slow and sweeping; idyllic. It pulled the imagination to picture oneself at a rainy window, the glow of the fire warming the room and being its only light. It induced calm and peace. For once, these forgotten things seeped into James, and his distant consciousness wouldn’t allow him to fully experience it.

_She liked to play the piano. She wasn’t ever good at it, but it made her happy. James supported her hobby and found her a spinet piano at a local estate sale. It was received with hugs and kisses and squeals of joy. Watching her fawn over this luxury purchase soaked James’s heart with the pure, undying love for his wife. Mary sat down that instant and ran her fingers along the keyboard, pet the borders, and tested the pedals. That night she set up sheet music to Elvis Presley’s classic “Love Me Tender” and blundered through it so many times that he lost count. _

_He heard her play in the morning, in the waning light of the evening, and by the lamp late at night. New music was purchased and she tried to learn to read it and bring it alive under her hands. Her vigilance was admirable; however, she hardly improved. James never told her that. Instead, he encouraged her and said that she was doing great. Most days, she believed him, and smiled so happily that James found himself mirroring her perfectly._

_Other days, Mary was too focused to reply. Sometimes in those moments, she’d snap at him to stop distracting her. James backed off and took a seat nearby to observe and appreciate instead, and now and then, she’d bang the keys in frustration and order him to leave._

_“I can’t concentrate with you leering at me like that. Do you want me to make mistakes so you can make fun of me in your head to your friends?” (James didn’t have friends. The one that could be tentatively called a friend became too busy after their marriage. He missed him.) “Go away, James. I need to figure this out and I can’t do it with you here.”_

James loved to hear her play.

The widower drew his lips inward, then relaxed them to part. It was definitely not Mary behind the keyboard now, and he couldn’t distort the scene to visualize her. In the dark corner of a room that he didn’t have any intention of seeing again held a lost, deeply compassionate-to-a-fault father that was trying to find a flake of solace and normalcy in this decomposing hell. Harry sought the world beyond Silent Hill, where the sun hung in the sky, there were friends to meet at a sports bar, where he could spend bonding time with his daughter and write his books. There was a place far away from the fog and monsters, and it was no place for James.

His feet brought him tentatively closer. _(“I can’t concentrate with you leering at me like that!”)_ James stopped. Harry was too engrossed in the music, his head down and observing his hands flowing over the keys. They were in separate worlds. The sight of his charge resting a blissful smile on his face and breathing life into the old instrument brought forward the guilt of his side of their earlier argument. It gave him pause.

Harry was so human. His complexion was redder and darker than James’s from enjoying the outdoors. Life and zest for it exuded from him at all times, no matter the mood. Harry was determined to live. He did not want to identify as just a survivor of Silent Hill. The past, James gathered over their week together, only beat harder on the drum of his war with his psyche and pushed him to win his right to enjoy existing. Harry Mason was the light and excitement that lit up this wretched town. Standing there, the music wrapping itself around James and trying to coax him to remember how good it could be to breathe happiness, he could only feel the heavy drain that Harry’s life force stole from him.

They were already toxic, and Harry was a fool to think that it wouldn’t stay that way. James forced the record straight. As much as he’d hate it, Harry had to face the facts: the plausibility of a connection beyond his role was off the table. James had one purpose and he was going to fulfill it, and do so without the complications of an idiot that wanted to find a friend in his unwilling, only chance to survive Silent Hill a final time.

The music faded away on the clouds of light, dreamy chords. The pedal released with a thunk and Harry took his hands to his thighs. Reverent silence settled in the room.

“Well, that was nice,” Harry said, waking James from his distant thoughts. He smiled down at the keyboard. “I’m surprised at myself, heh. I haven’t played in about a year.” He struck a few short, jaunty notes and laughed. “That was fun.”

He took his smile to James. James crept closer and rested his hand on the piano. Though the bouncy little tune starkly contrasted the masterpiece just played, it didn’t shake his unfamiliar peace.“What was that?” he asked, finding his voice. “I’ve heard it before. It’s nice. Kind of sad.”

“It’s Gymnopêdie Number One, by Satie.” Harry shrugged his brows, then his shoulders. “I’m not pronouncing it correctly, I’m sure. I’d bet any Frenchman would hang me for butchering their nice language.”

“I didn’t know you played piano.”

“You never asked.”

Fair enough. “You’re good.”

Harry seemed delighted. “Thanks. This one’s my favorite piece. Yeah, it’s kinda sad, but it’s airy and flowy, and.. I dunno.” His posture slumped comfortably. “Like you’re staring out the window at the moors on a gloomy day, but the house is warm and comfortable, and you’re far away in your daydreams.”

To tell the truth, it was a little spooky that they were so close in thought. “You really are a writer.”

Harry’s lips twisted for a goofy spin on his smile. “Thanks. I suppose I do sound the part now and then.”

James placed his elbow on the piano and leaned into it. They were at ease. “Got any other hidden talents?”

“Hmm.. nope. Not that I can think of off the top of my head.” The older man looked back at the keyboard. “This is probably my most impressive one.”

“What about unimpressive?”

“Depends on what you consider unimpressive. Uhh.. lemme think. Oh!” He snapped his fingers. “Funnily enough, I like puzzles. Jigsaw. Fuck pretty much other puzzle,” Harry laughed. “This place kind of ruined them for me. But I can solve a five thousand piece jigsaw puzzle in three hours, if I really focus.”

James scoffed. He didn’t know the record time for solving a five thousand-piece puzzle, of course, but three hours sounded fast. “How is that unimpressive?”

Harry hummed contemplatively. “I don’t know. I figure it’s a neat little talent in its own way. I can de-stress for three hours and rebuild a picture of rainbow cats eating cake.” He paused and sat up straight, turning an agreeable look to James. “Honestly? You’re right. It is impressive. I’m just not the kind of guy to go around bragging about it.”

“You’re a pretty humble guy as it is,” James observed. “I don’t see you doing much bragging.” Harry looked pleasantly surprised by the compliment.

“I don’t even humblebrag,” Harry laughed, “if I’m gonna be humble about it.”

He frowned. “Humblebrag?”

“Yeah. It’s when insecure people say something self-deprecating about something they’re actually proud of to draw attention to them so people can flood them with compliments,” he explained. “It’s not a good practice. Makes a person look bad.”

“That sounds insufferable.”

“It is. So how about you, huh?” Harry asked, absently rubbing his thighs. He was starved for a lighthearted chat after their argument. If James would open up any more in the comfort of this conversation, he’d be over the moon. “Any hidden talents in your arsenal?”

James dropped his eyes away. His strangely returning memories struggled to provide him with an answer. There was a strong likelihood that the answer was simply ‘no, nothing at all’ and at that moment, didn’t feel like enduring any more questions. He pushed off the piano and stepped away, drifting towards the open doors leading out of the empty restaurant.

Harry’s spirited mood faded to tepid and he sighed wearily through his nose. Their friendly exchange was already missed as he got up from the bench and sidled out from behind the classic, grand instrument. Collecting the pipe, he looked down at a thing of memories and brief unspoiled happiness, and fondly patted the surface. He hoped they’d have time for one more song. Maybe they could again forget their fight and heavy troubles. They - Harry - could pretend that they were a team that could trust each other and enjoy their company; perhaps even act like they were friends.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Harry didn’t look back as he closed the door to the Lake View Restaurant behind him. He took a definitive breath and the two stood in the dense silence of the hotel, once again.


	18. Working As Intended

That breath exhaled a cleansing, predictable sigh. He looked left and right. The place had been crafted for the intent of its visitors to easily navigate its general mapping and leave all worries at home. So far he found it as intended - pretty straightforward. That said, the issue he had involved a problem the hotel’s heyday guests didn’t have to tolerate: a defunct electrical system. Harry felt like they were at a bit of a navigational disadvantage here in the mostly-dark. (Not to say this wasn’t the norm in Silent Hill; he simply had different feelings about the hotel.) Thankful as he might be for two flashlights, their radius outmatched their distance, and pinned to two separate people meant some inconsistencies.

To their credit they were doing pretty well keeping aware, as they usually did. Harry forlornly examined the double bulbed light mounted on the wall. The hotel would feel worlds livelier illuminated, to be sure; but on the downside, he’d seen The Shining. He grimaced. On second thought, lights on in an enormous hotel would be exponentially worse. Its visible emptiness could play sneakier tricks on the mind, and if the lights failed altogether then they’d really be in a pickle.

Overthinking situations and likening them to fiction truly happened to be one of Harry’s strong suits. As a writer, it counted as a blessing. As a survivor, it posed a hazard. For the sake of their time and safety he crammed his imagination into a box and concluded that getting used to the hotel in darkness would be much more comfortable and beneficial.

Still, Harry felt lost. He genuinely didn’t expect them to get caught up in here, and boy was he rewarded for his sweet stupidity. Presently, he mused, they needed to be smarter about exploration, and referred to James for the thing he should’ve thought of first. “Is there a map of the place?” he asked, earning a glance. “I didn’t see any, though I wasn’t really looking.”

He hummed a reply. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Really? Huh.” Harry frowned ahead at the entrance to the lobby. “I would’ve expected at least one. Maybe several.”

“We can look, but I didn’t notice any.” He shrugged. “Not that I was particularly looking for one, either.”

“We’re both real winners, huh.” Harry turned around and unhooked the flashlight from its pocket, shining it freely over the walls. They were bare. The color and pattern of the wallpaper was sort of nauseating, though. “Welp. Nothing here. Guess we’ll make the rounds again for one, so keep an eye out. I wanted to go back upstairs and listen to the tapes again, anyway,” he added. “I wanna see if I can make any further hide or hair of them.”

James had nothing to contribute, and so was decided. It took less than two minutes to make and finish the search in the immediate vicinity. All doors declined solicitors and even a last-resort push on the elevator button snubbed them. Wholly ostracized and only a touch upset about it, Harry led the way up the zig zag of stairs to the third floor. 

Half a flight shy of their destination, Harry’s previously robust climb came to a halt. James knew by now to expect it. The author had settled comfortably into fatherhood at some point and to prove it, he gained a bit of weight over the years. It made him stocky and terrible at running to keep up with James, and he had to learn not to overexert himself in a fight. On the flip side, it added a good two handfuls of strength to make up for it, and though Harry joked about not working out, James suspected there was more muscle than he let on. Harry demonstrated an impressive knack for swinging that favored pipe of his (which led him to entrusting James with firearm duty and stowed the handgun away). He’d done a fair share of running around up and down stairs that day, anyway. For that, James excused his penchant for ignoring his cardio days - on a case by case basis, of course.

Tonight, Harry received forgiveness. They achieved the journey to the third floor and reached Room 319. There, the backpack changed hands and allowed James to settle into the upholstered, bland chair in the corner. He set his foot on his knee and loosely folded his arms, glad to get a break. As the drone of the recordings faded into the background, the civilian plunged into his thoughts.

A  _ cult? _ After all this time, after all the joyous years of repeating the spinning wheel of torture with little nuances peppered in for flavor, after all the guinea pig testing, all the strong insinuations that  _ he _ was so important to the future of Silent Hill that it made  _ him _ its rechargeable battery - and there was a whole goddamn  _ cult  _ that held  _ control _ over the town, and not  _ once _ did it think to clue him in? By the way Harry talked (or yelled, rather) about it, they were a big fucking deal and enough of a threat that James read unmistakeable raw terror in his face.

James fumed. Aided by his ignorance and an ego that Silent Hill not-so-lovingly bestowed upon him, he’d been made a mockery of in that fight. He refused to take responsibility for something he didn’t know, no matter how Harry twisted it. Now long after the fact, he realized it went precisely as planned. Silent Hill played a long con designed to humiliate him, and he didn’t appreciate the gag. 

A  _ cult.  _ Harry called it the Order and claimed they practiced religious demon god worship. James could’ve rolled his eyes out of their goddamn sockets. It reminded him of the kind of hokey stuff teenagers get into to make themselves seem mysterious and interesting. It was asinine. Though his opinion remained uninformed, James wisely chose to keep it to himself. The Order obviously meant too much to Harry to go about making unnecessary waves.

One night in their downtime they sat down and James listened to the abridged version of Harry’s first visit.

The year was 1999 and Harry had a seven-year-old daughter who had nightmares about a town called Silent Hill. He decided to make a trip there to show her that a sleepy tourist town was nothing to be scared about, and oh, what he would give to eat his words. 

They’d gotten a late start, there was traffic, and so it meant arriving in the dark of night. Harry crashed his Jeep to avoid hitting something in the road and when he came to, Cheryl was gone. 

He became a goose in a wild chase after a trail of breadcrumbs that kept blowing away. There were people he met whose names and purposes went mostly unexplained. The rest of the heavily censored story told him that Harry went through hell to find his little girl with short black hair. For an easygoing guy who liked to talk and share stories, James noted that Harry was oddly defensive and rigid the whole time, choosing his words cautiously. Omitting the hows and whys, Harry told him that Cheryl was for all intents and purposes killed and reborn. Harry was given a baby, instructed to raise and love her, and then told to run. So he did. And now he was a father to a teenage girl about to graduate high school.

_ I know it sounds completely, totally crazy, Harry sighed. I’ll be the first person to say that it is. I’m not gonna pretend I understand it. Just believe me. I know you can. But I can’t tell my therapist about this stuff. She’d commit me and I’m not ready for that step in our relationship. _

_ You’re right. It sounds crazy. You should keep that to yourself. _

_ Thanks. I appreciate the validation. _

It snowed in Old Silent Hill. Harry decided to make his reservations for August. The summer had been hot, and what better way to cool off before the school year but by a pretty lake? It was August, Harry said. And it was  _ snowing _ . Where it fell it dusted the ground and never melted, but also never piled on inches. There was no breeze for it to dance in. The flakes were fat and their descent unhurried. If the fog hadn’t hung so thick or was absent altogether, he doubted the not-so-wintry drift would’ve impaired his vision. For what it was and where he was, Harry recalled taking his face to the sky and letting the flakes rest on his skin. 

_ I’ve tried to feel ashamed for finding it beautiful. Ethereal. Seventeen years later having nightmares every goddamn week and I still can’t do it. Heh, is it fucked up of me that when I think about it, it kinda calms me down? A big part of me knows that it is. What do you think, James? Am I just that fucked up? _

The temperature felt about the same as South Vale, Harry reckoned. He couldn’t remember it getting any colder. And it was  _ August. _ Naturally, these facts checked another one of Silent Hill’s list of quirky impossibilities: snowfall where it didn’t belong.

In the streets flew skinned monsters, diseased and rotting dogs that chased him, shadow people that liked to huddle ‘round him, enormous worms, and a huge moth, among many more. James thought it ridiculous. These creatures appeared to be random. Judging by their quick summary, the only real theme was bugs, and he asked if Harry had any bad history with them.  _ Nope! _ he’d replied.  _ I actually kind of like bugs. Just.. not too crazy about some particular ones anymore, not that I was a huge bug enthusiast to begin with. _

(This information made him uncomfortable. Harry’s demons didn’t line up to the rules of creation James came to know and understand. He figured the system would be universal across the map, and inwardly grumbled that Harry had, by his standards, gotten off easy. Going by their descriptions, they were run of the mill and boring. They plagued Harry’s nightmares, sure, and they also fell short of laying hot iron on exposed nerves. James was wrong to compare their experiences. He was just doing it because he was jealous.)

James felt chuffed just the same. The story told had intentional manholes by the dozen, and tonight, Harry filled one. Funny, that. Looking back on the road so far, there had been no point in withholding that information from him. James assumed it was understood that unless forcibly separated, he was going to see Harry through to his reunion, then promptly shown the door. He couldn’t remember how long ago that talk was. It possibly had been still too early then, before Harry had proof that James would keep his mouth shut if he spilled all the details. That sounded like him, so James gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Some time ago, the town had started stockpiling its reserves not unlike a conspiracy nut prepping a bunker. Its powerhouse had his critical energy sucked dry then chucked swiftly onto the backburner like a child disinterested in their old toys. James became alone,  _ really  _ and  _ truly _ alone, and at the time he’d felt hurt by the abandonment. 

When he’d sensed Harry arrive, the town was simultaneously excited and peeved; stay and enjoy the party, but a bouncer will be right with you to toss you out onto the street. James kept working that one out in the background, for in the forefront beside the cult, there was Heather. 

Heather meant a lot to Silent Hill.  _ She was supposed to be alone _ , it screamed in the form of skull-splitting pressure and agonizing racket in his brain. She was supposed to be alone. James glanced at the tape recorder. The man’s broken voice wasn’t playing at that moment, but he didn’t forget what he said, and what Harry deduced. If that big player cult hired the man to find and deliver her, wouldn’t it be expected that he’d accompany her into Silent Hill? The town threw an unreasonable tantrum over a plan it should’ve known about and put him through the wringer like a janitor’s ratty towel for a comforting snack. Heather better be worth it. He’d be bitter about that for awhile.

James’s questions offset his answers. His frustrations were put aside as Harry ejected the tape and returned both to the backpack. James flicked his eyes up to him. “So, learn anything?”

“Nope. Not a damn thing more. I kind of wish I had headphones or something.”

James grunted noncommittally. Harry rubbed his forehead. “I also really wish I could sleep,” the older man groused. “I’m so fucking tired and I don’t even get to have a depression nap.” He dropped his hands to his thighs and looked at his guide. “Seriously, don’t you miss it? I think that’d be the first thing I’d miss.”

“Eh. It’s a nice way to pass the time, sure. I guess I don’t really remember what it’s like to sleep.”

Harry side-eyed him dubiously. “You are such a fucking mystery, bud.”

There was a shrug. “Don’t forget, you’re more vulnerable when you’re asleep. Maybe it’d be nice to sleep some of the hours away, but in the long run, it’s not very good for your mortality rate.”

Harry’s laugh came short. “Yeah, I’d have to agree on that one. I’m not really a, uh, interested in dabbling in what new monstrous killer I could wake up to like I’m a disposable side character in some horror movie. I get enough excitement as it is here.”

James idly scratched his neck. “Mm. Yeah. Stuff here kind of makes it hard to contend with horror movie plots.”

“No joke. Hell, it’s  _ hard _ to enjoy horror movies anymore. You know,” he said, wagging a finger at his companion, “out of everything that Silent Hill did to fuck me up, I’m pretty damn mad about it taking the fun out of horror movies. They’re just not the same. Yeah, some of them have their moments, but.. I guess I got spoiled here, in a way.” 

Harry brought up a lot of things he’d forgotten about in the outside world, and movies were no exception. James never really had a taste for horror flicks to start with, so his special place made sure that it’d ruin any potential he had for it. “I’m surprised that you’d even go to see scary movies after getting out of Silent Hill.”

Harry shrugged. “Me, too. Call it coping, I guess. I’m not gonna pretend that some of it doesn’t trigger me, especially if it’s one of those psychological thrillers. My therapist calls it ‘exposure therapy’. I put myself in situations that  _ could _ trigger me so I can learn how to control my reactions. It takes a while, but I guess it works.” He glanced thoughtfully to the recorder. “Hm.”

He took in this information blandly. Therapy sounded complicated. James had steered from the idea when people suggested it in the worst three years of his life. The idea of going brought shame. Harry’s tidbits and desire to talk about it made James wary of his potential to hold it together. If he was weak enough to need a therapist in the first place, it confirmed his belief that the survivor was indeed too soft for Silent Hill. At any rate, none of this mattered yet. They were wasting precious time, a habit that needed to be nipped in the bud.

James dismissed the subject and re-centered their priorities. He had to play catch up and he needed a concrete run down - hold the black outs. He tucked his folded arms snugly on his chest and focused on Harry. “So. Since we have some downtime, how about we talk about the Order?”

Harry groaned in acknowledgment for its miserable necessity. “Yeah, okay. That’s a good idea. Alright, let’s do this. Where do I even fucking start?” He screwed his eyes up at the ceiling, absently rubbing his thighs as he tried to organize the can of worms that made up the Order. “Uhh, let’s see.. jeez, uh.. phew, this is tough. How about throwing me a question and I’ll do my best to—“

The pitter patter of a child ran down the hall. Their eyes shot to the door. Through the walls they heard the thud of soles playing a game of hopscotch that took them closer and closer to their room. Harry detected something strange about the tread: it sounded lopsided. One step fell heavier than the other, as though a shoe’d been lost. Playtime came to a brisk end beyond the door, and neither dared move. Impatient feet scuffed the carpet then scampered off. Within seconds, the hall’s end door softly creaked open and closed.

Harry looked at James. “You ever heard of the trope, ‘don’t investigate the noise?’” The question was rhetorical, based on the knowledge that investigating the noise was usually mandatory here, and that he wasn’t going to get a response. He stood and James followed suit. “Well, let’s get going.” 

Harry tried to hide his rush to find out who (or what) the feet were attached to as he shed the loose leather jacket. The flashlight clipped and nestled into his sweater’s v-neck and the room keys transferred from the coat to his pants pocket. James noted he took his weapon but not the pack. Assuming it was his duty again, James reached for the strap and Harry’s pipe tapped his hand away. The conduit frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m thinking we can use this room as a safe room,” Harry replied, shoving up his maroon sleeves. “Let’s be reasonable, that backpack needs a serious reconsideration and it weighs us down. We have a key, we’ll lock up and pretend like this is a solid plan and absolutely won’t bite us in the ass.”

James shook his head. “Your call.” He collected shotgun shells from their hoard and dropped them in his pockets, then stepped into the hall after Harry. Room 319 was locked up.

On their way to the stairwell Harry abruptly flinched and clapped his hand over the top of his head. He stopped in his tracks and scanned the ceiling. James paused, and tracked the ray of Harry’s flashlight to a murky stain above and its fat, telltale tears waiting to drop. “Aw, man,” Harry whined. “We got a leak. Somebody call the maintenance guy. This looks bad.” 

The comedic timing was impeccable. A bomb of water exploded on a deserving nose and James smirked as Harry scoffed and sidestepped away. “Yuck,” he muttered into his bicep, drying off on his sleeve. 

James got to relish his own bite of schadenfreude until a snide tickle raised the hair on his neck. His eyes darted to Room 312. The event was no longer funny. It’d been a prank. Cute, sure; harmless, even.  _ Would you stop? _ he asked the sniggering, haunted chamber. His lip curled, the mood briefly soured.

A sharp gasp whispered _ “Jesus fucking Christ!” _ and snapped him to attention. Spying on them from the stairwell was the obstructed view of a child’s profile. They seemed unbothered by the lights shining hard on their androgynous partial features, and scrutinized them as if to say,  _ ‘Well? Are you coming?’  _ All three leered at one another for a good moment, then the kid bolted down the stairs.

Harry exhaled hard. “That scared the shit out of me,” he hissed, and instantly gave chase.

The men followed a trail of slowly closing doors. They charged across the hall overseeing the foyer and through to the east wing. Harry seized the vertical bar handle as the door to the guest rooms almost shut and flung it open. James ducked past him to be the first at the bend, and the author staggered after him. They studied the blackened hall, Harry catching his breath and the resident unmoved by the dash.

The combined power of the flashlights weren’t enough. In Silent Hill the dark worked differently, but in this particular instance it felt denser, and controlled. It devoured the cones meant to improve the field of vision and compacted them into tight circles. They crept guardedly down the stretch. Step by step the morphed spotlights cast menacing shadows across the back of a girl facing the solitary window. 

One of the beams shuddered over her. The little girl wore her thick blonde hair in a high ponytail gathered by a hot pink scrunchie. The tail hung to her shoulders, brushing the snug blue plaid dress pulled over a pale pink knit sweater. She stood unevenly on a pair of feet that were missing a mate to a pink Mary Jane shoe, ending the mystery of her odd stride, and so exposed the dirty sole of the white socks that reached her calves.

James heard Harry’s breath hitch and hollow. The sight of the girl affected them both. James maintained his composure, and subconsciously, noticed his ward’s restraint had gotten better. Good. He depended on Harry’s will to keep it together.

Neither wanted to get too close. They stopped a collective four rooms away; close enough to engage, and edging the best distance for an escape. As though sensing the tension over her shoulder the girl rotated, revealing features that both men did, and didn’t, recognize. She smiled. “You’re  _ really _ bad at hide and seek,” she cheerfully reprimanded as she swiveled side to side. “ _ I _ thought I was gonna have to make it easier. Next time you get stuck like that just call ‘olly-olly-oxen-free,’ okay? It gets really boring if you can’t use your brains.”

She proved to be a sassy little punk and her voice came sweeter than candy. For each man she gave a unique, cruel gift: the individual experience of hearing her words and tone in the perfect imitation of the little girls they once knew. It kept them shocked and silent. The child stopped her fidgeting, and her smile quickly vanished, then brightly returned. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she chirped, striking jolts of fear into her pursuer’s hearts. “I’m having a really great time with you.” Her voice welded the two distinct renditions of two different girls. Her ensuing call shifted the corridor into a reverberation chamber, converting tangled noise into a thunderous growl. 

From James’s damp hair ushered the first beads of water, and knotted anguish forced a full-body, lasting shiver in Harry. 

They heard their names. They heard them simultaneously clear as day and as an impure mash. The radio in James’s pocket earnestly gasped to life, and its too-belated warning did nothing to move them. Narrowed beams from their flashlights wildly strobed across the scourged child and witnessed a faithless transfiguration.

From head to toe her appearance rapidly cycled through no one and everyone. The father and murderer confronted their merged lifetimes of women whose lives had somehow impacted their own, and were projected as the little girls they formerly were. It didn’t matter if their childhood had been foreign to them or not. She was all of them instantaneously, and in her dizzying carousel of strangers and familiars, James and Harry independently recognized every single one they knew.

Harry caught his balance by the will of Lady Luck. James’s iron hand bruised his arm as he towed him like a sled dog ordered to mush back down and turned the corner, where they collided on closed doors. Tall, sleek bronze handles could be yanked and shaken all they liked, but the doors refused to entertain their freedom. Harry rolled and braced himself, quaking, against the wooden panel. James lurched around the bend where a blinding flash of unmistakable orange and red blasted him in its glare. Harry saw James squint hard against it and the gust it brought seconds before he threw the shotgun up and secured it on his shoulder. Harry dove forward to join him at his side as the gun soundly cocked.

It was hotter than hell in there. A forest of flames burned voraciously on the walls, and Harry protected his eyes behind his forearm from the fire’s blaze and flying ash. Already sweating in the heat, the steel weapon he held up spiked to scorching and forced it to his other hand. James stood stiff next to him, patiently waiting for whatever was to come as the water ceaselessly trickled.

From the violent fiery dance her silhouette emerged untarnished, malevolence surging through her slow gait. Every step she took invoked impossible aging. She grew from age seven or eight to ten, eleven, thirteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen— then sped through all of them again and again. The ceiling detonated grenades of cinders and drywall. Harry was convinced they’d be cooked alive in this cage. Without the handgun he stupidly kept shoved in the backpack, he deemed himself useless in this battle bearing only a pipe that might soon melt his palm. Although James had his gun, he also feared it wouldn’t be enough. His incompetence could mean failure, and he prematurely accepted the blame.

She drew closer. Harry glanced at James. The rivers borne from turbulent panic flowed unabated, soaking his clothes, and dripped from the steady hands holding the gun aloft. The water betrayed a man beyond terrified, and yet he showed the same calculated ease of a fairgoer shooting a prize balloon. A passing, unbefitting thought pricked him with its needle, and Harry’s heart drew blood. He dug his feet into the floor. Perhaps he was useless here. He lowered his arm from his eyes and jumped his scalding weapon into that dominant hand, dealing with the sweltering heat head on.  _ Or maybe, he wasn’t. _ The civilian and survivor challenged their tormenter, equally resolute, side by side.

The shotgun fired its first shell. Her shoulder was struck. She twisted from its force, and gave no scream. The empty casing jumped and the pump clacked. Harry’s lips parted; his bravery wavered. When hit, her rapid flickering made a hard stop and she embodied a girl - no, a woman - that was undoubtedly Heather.

_ That can’t be right _ , Harry’s brain whispered.  _ No. That’s not right. _ He swayed the pipe at his side like an antagonistic baseball player at home base, insulted by her error and beckoning an attack. The monstrosity recovered in a breath and the cycling resumed, only for the next shot to the opposite shoulder dip her back and revive the original image of the little girl that lured them. 

Without warning her body erupted into boils, and from her wounds inflated two enormous blisters to bursting. They spewed yellow ichor that smelled exactly of the charred and fermented, waterlogged flesh that roamed the South Vale streets. The gun cocked again. One shell left. James would have to make it count, for he relied on Harry to take active defense to give him time to reload. He hoped he had his back.

The girl convulsed in place and the blisters popped like gruesome bubblewrap, regrew, and ruptured again. The fire raged and consumed the end of the corridor in a torrent, and barreled for the hotel’s last guests. Cold air flooded in from doors that thrust themselves open, making an offer they couldn’t refuse. They raced for the lobby and threw their weight into the final set of doors, flinging themselves onto the gangway above the empty reception hall. As swiftly as the doors opened they crashed shut, containing and protecting them from the fires of perdition.

The drastic change in temperature whipped Harry’s dripping face and barely soothed his overheating body. He staggered to the rail, clutching the weapon suddenly cool in his unmarred hand and gulped for air. James propped himself heavily against the wall behind him. The radio was silent. Harry lifted his chin to the ceiling and closed his salt-stung eyes. His chest heaved and shuddered. While James himself softly panted he neglected to notice this, forcing the therapeutic practices he learned on a trembling body and weakened psyche.

How unlucky they were to have their respite robbed of them so soon. Harry reopened his eyes and took them to their corners as the thrum of churning metal rose to his ears. Change below him captured his sight and he looked down into a foyer savagely overtaken by rusted, grated floors that sheltered an endless pit below. The transformation spread like an aggressive fungus and replaced the walls, stairs, ceiling - the banister he held - in bloody, rotting steel. 

Harry ripped his hands away and backed up. James gaped in awed wonder as the Otherworld spilled its disease. This time it was Harry that snared James by the drenched sleeve and led the retreat, and James looked back at a barbaric manifestation constructing a torture chamber out of his special, unholy place, and found it amorally beautiful.

The safe room awaited them. James outran Harry on the last flight to the third floor to reload. He expected to be closely followed but a yelp and struggle interrupted his window, and he pivoted to discover Harry trapped in the middle of the stairwell. 

A swarm of little, ashy hands stretched from a chasm that sought to swallow the man whole. Harry clung desperately to the handrail and strained to pull himself out of their innumerable grasp, to lift his legs, to defy them at all, but their strength overpowered his own. They made steady progress towards their goal by the second and he thrust back his arm to beat the hands down. He was punished for this, the hands snatching for his weapon and solely by Harry’s adrenaline-fueled reflexes did they let go. Forced to clutch it and the rail together, Harry directly hampered his ability to save himself.

James shouldered the stock again. He squinted past Harry’s pleading face and the hoarse whisper of his name ghosted his ear moments before he took faith in his speculative aim and fired his last shell into the shadowy horde. 

The pit exploded plumes of ash and many startled hands let go. James rushed to reload to an aria of confused, gargling cries of children, and as soon as the barrel and break snapped closed he induced two additional cacophonous refrains. Harry scrambled for stable ground under his feet as the hands slid on his legs and held onto his cuffs. James hurriedly stepped down and reached for the end of the pipe, dragging Harry out of the infernal trench to the supposed safety of the third floor.

The Otherworld ascended menacingly below them. James left Harry to check the doors leading to the safe room. They were locked. He spun around furiously, his chest tight with turmoil. Water seeped from the slat beneath the doors and matched the pace of the river coursing relentlessly down his body, immersing the carpet in wet. The sodden floor squelched under his boots and James paced in front of a collapsed man shaking like a leaf in the wind chill on the only dry island on the floor. He was at a total loss. Frantic to develop a last ditch plan that wouldn’t straightaway require Harry, all his needs were met when a thudding, methodical knock on the godforsaken door got his attention.

The deadbolt retracted. It went off like a rocket in his ears to the tune of the draw and click of his shotgun’s pump.  _ Open sesame, _ it said, and the door invitingly creaked ajar.

He had no choice. They had no safe room to run to. The threat of the Otherworld nipped at their heels and crushed the debilitated man under the deafening roar of its mechanics. He uprooted the terrorized father under the arm and held tight as the older man jerked hard in shock. James all but threw himself and Harry into Room 312 and slammed the door closed.   
  



	19. Go On, Say It

James braced his hand and arm against the door. The Otherworld’s din receded as it slunk from its failed mission. His forehead connected dully to the panel and he heard the pipe hit the bed. A chair accepted the sag of the father’s leadened body and James closed his eyes. Harry’s frantic breaths, gasping and skipping through a valiant effort to regain control, sank into the sludge of a muddled head. James slid his hand down the carved wood and dropped his other arm to his side, the shotgun teetering in slack fingers. Somehow, he had to muster the strength to push off and take in the view of the cursed suite, but try as he might, it didn’t come. It was too soon. First, he had to rest. That’s what he told himself: rest, James. 

Little by little the water’s last rivulets descended down his body and disappeared into the floor. James shivered as his hair and clothes dried themselves and his skin lost its sheen. He forced concentration on those inexplicable events and unconsciously matched the recovering drag of Harry’s breathing. Their hysteria mutually subsided from opposite sides of the room. Mournful silence took the place of the survivor’s sobs. James felt empty. Before him lay a difficult task, and it was time that he completed it. If he could face the parking lot and good, faithful Sherry - though she shouldn’t have been there, and he hadn’t been ready just yet, no, not yet - he could do this. Another breath, and he _made _himself ready. He sluggishly pushed himself from the door and confronted Room 312.

It looked the same, but he didn’t expect it to be different. The only anomaly was the black world beyond the outlook made of French doors, and yet the glass cast an impossible illumination over the room. James shook his head in disbelief. Silent Hill’s native, dismal glow touched every corner it could reach and cast long, fuzzy shadows where it could not. Of course, he recognized it. To defy the outside darkness in the name of reenacting his last, magical time in this room made a clever gag. 

James found Harry in a chair he once sat in, in a position not unlike he once held, and soaking in a mimicry of the same shadowed stretch. For the second time, Harry sat in front of a TV. The first TV was caked thickly in splatters of blood and gore, and Harry had dropped like a ragdoll into the cushion. He inadvertently mimicked the corpse that couldn’t find a channel to watch and wouldn’t appreciate anyway, head blown apart, from many years ago. The similarity didn’t elude him then, nor did it now. 

James tilted his head. For the unaware, the view would have appeared unintentional; Harry needed a place to rest and recollect himself. Completely understandable. This chair, as it were, just so happened to be the easiest to find - like the one back in the apartment. It seemed innocent. However, the two instances in which Harry was so overwhelmed that he needed immediate respite, he took it in places that scorched James’s memories. He wanted to believe they were mere coincidences; truly, he did. It led him to wonder if Silent Hill could actually influence Harry like that. This was all too uncanny to be chance, and so didn’t sit well with James.

Harry needed more time. James broke away from the scene and drifted towards the bed. The steel pipe looked heavier, longer, and deadlier nesting in the lovely plush blanket. For such a ghoulish thing, Harry carried it like a lifeline and played with it like a baton. There was rarely a time he was without it. It held obvious significance to him. James never asked Harry why he liked the pipe, but he also wasn’t offered the information. He didn’t want to know Harry Mason that well, anyway. 

James picked up the weapon to discover its weight curiously balanced for its length. Harry could’ve made it in professional baseball if he’d dedicated himself to his swing, he reckoned. He’d watched him cave in heads, break bones, and send bodies rolling like it was second nature. His first impression of the guy - a kindly, middle-aged man bearing the first creases of age, his thick brown hair slicking back the bands of grey sprouting from his temples, a thin grey streak running off center from a widow’s peak, whose likely burly frame hid beneath a loose, old leather jacket and a rusty pipe held cautiously low - would not let him think that Harry was capable of holding his own in a fight. He’s charismatic, bright, a huge drain, and totally unassuming.

And Harry called _him_ Ted Bundy.

The steel was cool and the gore came off in flakes, peppering the flowery blanket in crimson. He’d noticed a while ago that Harry seemed uncomfortable holding a gun. Turns out he was a better shot than James expected, but Harry simply hated it. Luckily, he himself preferred his shotgun to something up close and personal so to have a dedicated batter made them a good team. 

Hm. A good team.

His charge exhaled a fatigued groan behind him. “Remember how I said to pretend it was a solid plan and it wouldn’t come back to bite us in the ass?” Harry asked. James waited for the punchline. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not so good at playing pretend anymore. I don’t have much of an ass left.”

James, still examining the bludgeon, hummed before he spoke. “That’s a shame. I don’t know how you’re not screaming in agony sitting there, then.”

The humor brought a weak chuckle. “It’s the adrenaline. It’ll hit me in a minute. You shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“Oh well. Hindsight is 20/20.”

Harry raised his head and glanced at him. While appreciated, he wondered if the lighthearted efforts were made to soothe him in particular, or the both of them. Or maybe it was simply small talk. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth either way, so he chose the floor. “Speaking of hindsight, I guess that plan for a safe room had some plot holes I most certainly didn’t consider.”

James dropped his arm, the cudgel’s metal elbow thudding the floor. Harry’s attention scrutinized the source and he again peered curiously up at James. “What’s that? You gonna double fist a shotgun and _my_ weapon now?”

Green eyes glimpsed brown. “Yeah. Maybe we can find you a board and nail for you to use.”

Harry scoffed and extended his hand. “Gimme that. Find your own trusty pipe to play whack-a-mole with.”

James complied and gently swung it into Harry’s palm. Harry gave it a once-over, then planted its flat into the floor and folded his hands over the curve to lean on it. Substantially calmer, at least to James’s learning eye, the older man assessed the old fashioned TV planted directly in front of him. “Mm. Wonder if the news is on. Maybe we can get a weather report for the week.” He wasn’t near enough to fiddle with the knobs and didn’t feel like making the effort, but his interest piqued when he noticed true vintage sitting beside it. “Well, look at that. It feels like fifty years since I’ve seen a VHS player.”

“I doubt there’s anything in it,” James dismissed. He watched Harry find some inspiration to move and try the knobs. To the author’s disappointment and the conduit’s relief the TV was dead to the world. Harry sighed.

“What a shame, not that I’m surprised.” He lapsed into silence, then frowned. Wrinkles deepened his brow and his eyes darted from the windowed wall to the soft light gracing the room. “Hey. What’s this all about?”

“Hm.”

“The light,” he said, knowing to accept that as a ‘go ahead.’ “It’s pitch black outside and it’s all lit up in here.” He sat up and twisted, scanning the rest of the suite for the first time. The intrigue finally got him out the chair and James continued to observe Harry exist in an infected room.

He didn’t like that they were in here. They were meant to be, and he knew that. The hotel had a plan cooking on the stove for them and his appetite had jumped ship eons ago. James wanted to quickly get through whatever further punishment was rapping at the door and move on. His lips parted to speak and didn’t get the chance to.

“So, I was wondering,” Harry began, leaning over the couch to inspect the painting on the wall, both hands loosely clasping the pipe behind his back, “about that little girl we saw.” He partially turned and inclined his head at James. Prudence hung behind twin cool demeanors. This subject was loaded. “That really fucked me up, James. I mean, _really_ fucked me up.” The citizen wordlessly agreed. “You know, it sucked in the beginning,” he went on, “but I got a handle over that monster running around imitating my daughters. Fine. Whatever. Cheap parlor tricks. But _that?_” Disgust shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but that crossed a line.”

Interesting. “There are no lines here, Harry. If you think you have a line, it’s going to get crossed.”

“I mean, no shit, right? I can’t even _begin_ to process all of that right now. It all happened one after the other after the other and if Silent Hill wanted to get to me, god, it sure hit that one right on the nose.”

_Like that leak_, James thought, and a scowl twinged his lip. Luckily, Harry was too distracted to see it. “I just.. don’t get it. I’m trying to work some of it out now because what really bugs me is that she had blonde hair, and not black. And it was long. Cheryl had short hair. She didn’t look like Cheryl, but at the same time she _did_, and she was wearing the same clothes when I lost her,” he whispered on the waves of a broken heart. James cast his eyes shamefully to the ground. “But Cheryl also hadn’t worn shoes; just her socks. And that girl had one shoe I’ve never seen before, and it wasn’t her voice— not entirely. Not.. _entirely_, James,” Harry croaked, finishing the turn. “I don’t know what you heard, or who or what that other little girl was, but I _saw_ and I _heard_ Cheryl, _my_ little girl, all over again, and that was _worse_ than I could have _ever_ imagined it to be.”

A thick silence wedged between them. James avoided Harry’s waiting, wounded eyes. At first, he’d felt confident about putting on an unbreakable, ambivalent face. As it turned out, the whole disaster simply took its time catching up with him, and it’d finally arrived with all its baggage in tow. Like a guilty man in front of the judge, he couldn’t bring himself to freely offer an explanation so predictably, Harry probed for one. “I heard her, James, and I saw her. But I don’t know who that other little girl is. You _had_ to have heard her too, right? The way she made the voices speak together? _Who was she?”_

James was cornered. Harry could see that James knew more than just something about that blonde girl. What he’d get was a gamble. The resident placed truths under overturned cups and shuffled them around. If Harry wanted them, he’d have to learn to follow the right cup. In the meantime, he chose to deal Harry yet another hand of white lies and partial truths. “Some girl,” James responded, receiving a frustrated grunt. “Yeah, I knew her. She—“

“So you did know her,” Harry interrupted more accusingly than James appreciated. “I knew you would’ve had to. There’d be no other reason why she’d show up, so who was sh—“

“Would you let me talk?” James flared his arms, annoyed. “I don’t talk a lot, Harry. I really, really don’t like talking, but I really, _really_ don’t like talking about this. Okay? I’ll tell you who she is, but remember, it’s gonna be by my terms, not yours.”

The same warning tension from their fight reprised its role. Under his dogged stare, Harry gathered himself and quietly acquiesced. James relaxed, and so did the air. “Yes, I knew her. I met her when I got here,” he explained. “She meant something to me, and it was enough to fuck me up pretty bad, too.” 

Harry’s glance went to James’s boots instead of his face. “Yeah, I saw,” he murmured. James nodded once.

“Yeah. And yeah, I heard it too, the way the— she— whatever, the voices spoke together. And the.. weird blipping thing and all that. Harry, I don’t want to talk about the girl or that at _all_.” He sized him up and down. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here, but it looks to me you’re done talking about it, too.”

“Pretty much.” The tone sounded agreeable, but James heard it for the feeble lie it was . As though he sensed his doubt, Harry lifted an assuring gaze. “Look.. we know each other by now. I know you know I want to keep talking about it, and _you_ know _I_ know you’re done. I don’t wanna fight, James. All that back there, that was some really vile, pent up stuff. I don’t want to get into that again. It sucked, it happened, and I want to move past it. And I _really_ don’t want to fight like that again.”

James gently nodded. An awkward, stuffy beat passed, and the dumb surprise stuck to his face when Harry softly continued.

“I’m sorry. I can’t take it all back and maybe it’s shitty of me not to want to take back everything, but.. you were right on a lot of things,” Harry admitted. “I needed to hear it. I don’t think anyone likes getting back the garbage they put in someone else’s bin. I swear I have my own trash can. So, I’m sorry. I don’t expect an apology too, James. I just want to wash my hands of it.”

Color him speechless. James tried not to gawk as Harry meandered around the coffee table. All his thoughts lay in dirty piles on the floor of his brain and he tore them apart trying to find something to say. Apparently the tourist wasn’t as done as he seemed to suggest.

“Also, I just wanna say one more thing.” Harry sent him another serious look. “Back there, in the hall? That was pretty rough. I got kinda worried there that we were in too deep. I feel pretty bad about it,” he added, breaking eye contact. “I should’ve taken the gun. It would’ve helped us out. But, uh..” The carpet hid the right words in its patterns from him, and he stalled to look harder. “You got us out there. I saw how fucked up you were and you kept it together and saved our asses, then you saved _my_ ass and I think I’m gonna have to start taking tallies, James. I’m not gunning to be a damsel in distress here, you know..“ Harry chuckled at himself, and lifted a benign smile to a blank face. “I’m getting kinda mushy on you here, huh? I’m sorry, I just.. I guess there was a lot to get off our chests and again, I’m not expecting anything from you, but it’s nice to get the better things off my chest, too. So, thanks. That’s all I mean to say. Thank you.”

Old landmines beneath those aforementioned dirty piles suddenly detonated and flung them around his head like party streamers. Harry mumbled an aside that James didn’t catch. Collecting any more information would put him too far past overwhelmed. They’d vaulted from the verge of arguing to a flat, comfortable place, but somehow James’s pole snapped before touchdown and he skidded headfirst through a confusing mound of soft leaves and blunt rocks.

Harry dropped a goddamn heavy compliment on his head. Here and there he gave polite, situationally acceptable praise that James usually tuned out. He felt sick; Harry is so _genuine, _so _sincere_, and the warmth of his smile combined with all he had to say put James at a level of discomfort so high he wanted to collapse in on himself and sink through the floor.

Questionable repulsion and mortification stuck to James’s face like glue. He felt knotted and vulnerable. It worsened when Harry kindly ignored him and ambled about the suite, unknowingly tacking on more humiliation that ran hot and juvenile. If there was a hole to crawl into he’d squeeze in in a heartbeat.

What a disgraceful display! All these mental gymnastics would never make even an amateur team. James’s thoughts twisted and jumped and landed face flat, and little did he know that a lone spectator had taken a seat on the bleachers to watch. He floundered and scrambled to rebuild his thoughts (and how very, very frustrating: nothing like _that_ should have an effect on him like _this_) and thus paid no heed to the spy that snuck up from behind, threw a black sack over his head, and tightened the drawstring.

“This room is really nice. I figured a place like this would have something like a honeymoon suite,” Harry said, pausing to admire the antique writing desk. “Silent Hill used to be a great destination spot to run away to after a wedding, I imagine.”

“I actually stayed in this room when my wife and I visited years ago.”

The air froze. James pivoted to face Harry. The author struggled to digest his shock as James stiffly went on. “She loved it here, so we took a trip. It wasn’t our honeymoon. We’d been married for a year at that point. It was just a vacation.”

Harry’s eyes darted over James’s face. The man was naturally stoic, yet something felt off. Where perhaps sadness should’ve been behind his gaze, or even awkwardness in his posture, there was only stone. Even for a man like James, whose nuggets of emotional expression were few but distinct, his speech came across too cold in the wake of a startling, and deeply personal reveal. He was blunt; nonchalant. Harry steered back on track. The confession took forefront importance over dwelling on James’s strange demeanor.

“You’re married?” he prompted, his tone hushed. He received a nod.

“Was. Was married.”

Old habits die hard but ancient habits put up a fight. Tenderness kept his words quiet when he prodded, “What happened?”

James’s eyes abruptly hardened to a direct glare that reminded Harry of his promise. He immediately backed down and put up his hand in admission of his mistake. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m doing it again. End of discussion.”

His apology may or may not have been accepted, but James said nothing and turned his back. He left Harry frantically clamoring through his skull for clues he may have missed, and in his self-made privacy, James’s absolute horror entertained the empty room.

That was his voice, but those were _not_ his words. No, he retracted. That wasn’t his voice, _and_ those weren’t his words. _None_ of that came from him. The whole exchange took thirty seconds. A whole_ thirty seconds _where information that Harry did _not_ deserve to know (yet) just fell right out of his mouth. He fought so hard to rip that bag off his head because he knew if it lasted one second more, there would be no backpedaling in his favor. So who was it, then, that flapped his gums and mentioned a wife long gone, when James himself was taken hostage in his own head?

James ground his jaw. What a nasty, _evil_ little trick; and for something grave enough to be called ‘evil’ around here had a lot to say about it. He mentally scurried through the chain of events. Catch him off guard - and _how_, exactly, did it manage that? - zip a blackout sack over his head, and just like that, Silent Hill debuts some _terrible_ James Sunderland improv.

But _how_? What could have put him in at such a.. oh. Of course.

Room 312. It had to be at fault. Having no choice but to take refuge in this godforsaken room eroded his defenses, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not. That had been the plan all along. Break them down, break _him_ down further, get into his head and spill some factoids about the historical significance of this pretty, upscale suite. However much he liked to think how well he’s ignored her since check-in and their running about, on the third floor of the Lake View Hotel, Mary knocked. When he refused to answer the door, Silent Hill decided it would do it for him.

Harry mentioned a line being crossed and James told him that if there was one to cross it should be no surprise when it happens. He said it so flippantly, too, like he couldn’t think of a single boundary left for the town to snip. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. It sure is one way to knock him down a few pegs.

James chewed on his cheek. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t _supposed_ to last longer than thirty seconds. Playing puppeteer came with its price, and surely, the town thought it a fair trade. Being its conduit he could sense its power, while at an all-time high, albeit strained between multiple subjects, took a good dent. Fair’s fair in love and war.

He suspected the town would recoup and again idle by. The trick, wicked and below the belt, was executed with purpose. Future complications of it were limitless; but must used sparingly. Silent Hill put James on higher alert. If he got lucky, he’d be able to figure out where the vulnerabilities were that made him a sitting duck before it happened again. And it would. Next time, swear on his shotgun, he’ll be ready.

All he has to do now is pinpoint that weak spot, and James has no fucking idea where it could be.

He absently bounced the gun that hung in his hand. No more of that. Room 312 tackily opened its own gift basket and James wanted the entire visit refunded. “We should go see if we can get to the safe room,” he suggested. “I’ll bet that it’ll be fine out there.”

Harry hesitated. “I agree on the safe room, not too sure about it being fine out there.”

“We don’t really get a say in it, do we?” James strolled to the door and waited for Harry to join him before opening the room to the hall.

The Lake View Hotel greeted them. Dead silence had returned to the air. The doors were open and Harry pulled on his jacket, went to take over backpack duty, and was rejected on the reasoning that he was slower with it on. He was also barred from the handgun. Mildly offended but wholly agreeable, Harry waited for James to replenish the shells in his pockets and then the pair went for the stairs.

Understandably, Harry showed some reluctance. James shadowed him for his peace of mind. Pushing into the lobby had the author’s heart running a marathon until he saw the same tired decor he’d gotten used to. Everything was fine; the Otherworld had never been here. As he followed Harry, clearly on edge yet working diligently through his fears, James idly contemplated the Otherworld. 

Harry had mentioned it once, a while back, and the description he gave left him wondering about it ever since. Having finally gotten a sneak peek, it exceeded his expectations. It was no question that they’d spend some time in the Otherworld in the future. He ought to feel worse about his excitement, but James didn’t care to muster the shame at the moment. Curiosity stepped in instead and he studied Harry out of the corners of his eyes when they reached the ground floor. “So that was the Otherworld.” He got a grimace.

“Yeah. You can understand why I’m not a fan, right?”

“It’s noisy. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It usually is at first,” Harry replied distractedly. “It shuts up after awhile. Then it starts again to scare the pants off you.”

“It’s interesting. Does it always come on like that?”

“Yeah, but usually the siren starts it. Hear the siren, the Otherworld shows up. They’re buddies. That’s the reason why I wasn’t too crazy about the siren,” he added, looking anywhere but James. “But it showing up indoors _without_ the siren happened all the time, just with a different noise. Or no noise.”

Though he wanted to help James understand it, the event was still too raw. James’s patience and restraint continued to be his best quality, so he dropped the topic and picked up a new one. “Not really sure what to do here, now.”

“Well, we’re back to square one,” Harry remarked flatly. James looked around for a suggestion, though the task went uncompleted when his companion pitched an idea: “What about going back to the restaurant?” James glanced at him. Harry offered a smile and invitingly flared his arms. “I take requests.”

A roll of his eyes and the shake of his head preceded a half-hearted, half-joking shrug. “Fine.”

Harry perked right up and awarded him a warm, obliged smile. James didn’t try to return one at all. He trailed him, feeling a little nauseous after that too-bright smile. It caused him to hang back a little from Harry’s exuberant, harmful energy, and that large hand had just closed on the handle when the elevator dinged in the corner.

James stepped in close to his ward and scrutinized doors unhurriedly squealing open. All that happy energy went flat. That felt a lot better to be sure, but this sight was just as unwelcome to him. Sensing Harry’s relatable inward griping and reluctance, he dryly noted their moods were matching more often, though his own held strong irritated overtones. Unfortunately, once again, acceptance was mandatory. 

James didn’t care much for this new pattern.

“Well, whaddya know. I guess there is somewhere to go, after all.” Harry’s hand slid dejectedly from the handle and dourly pat James’s shoulder on his pass. “When in Rome..”

_Do as the Romans do_, he finished in his head. Dusty panels of plastic sheltered fluorescent rods that dropped sickly yellow light in the small box outfitted in the same carpet, the same wooden borders, and same dizzying wallpaper that covered each miserable inch of the hotel. It warped the colors and shadow on their clothes when they filed in and James caught a glimpse of the distorted tone on Harry’s hand when he pressed the button. He’d once felt claustrophobic in this same lift, and Harry’s stockier frame at his side made the tiny deathtrap feel no bigger than a ring box. There was no swallowing the suffocating wad of apprehension as the elevator accepted the command, and as the doors slid shut, James’s loathe for the denial of true death recycled anew. 


	20. A Toluca Times Best Seller

The elevator opened up to the resort’s guest hideaway. In spite of the sinister way they were beckoned to the tiny death trap, the arrival was rather anticlimactic. It brought them one short, simple floor down and Harry blew a raspberry once he realized how easy it would have been just to take the stairs. 

“Well, thanks. To be fair, I guess we _ didn’t _ come down here at all. I didn’t even notice there _ were _ stairs. Maybe it would have been done earlier if we, I dunno, had a map of the place.” He rolled his eyes sarcastically to the ceiling to address the hotel itself. “Thanks for the help.”

There were two doors on their left to explore, and the one to the half sized kitchen turned out to be the only one willing. It was a pretty tight fit in there. “I think there’s a larger one upstairs. For the restaurant,” James quipped, and Harry didn’t really care either way. The swing door to the adjacent room seemed jammed, which was befuddling, so they continued. Beyond the kitchen’s third door showed them a narrow concrete area clearly for employees only. 

The vicinity had a smokey, dense smell to it, again synonymous to the scorched and boggy ladies they were well acquainted with. “I love the consistency with the themes,” the author commented, studying walls damaged by a previous fire and thick black mold meeting the wispy shadows almost halfway. “Though the combination never fails to make the nose hairs curl.” James could’ve agreed if he weren’t distracted by the black fungus measuring thigh high. Evidently the flooding had drained itself since his visit. On one hand, he was glad they weren’t wading in it; on the other, the leftover stains made him sore. 

However, Harry’s remark provoked another topic to mull over: the theme of fire and water. James could guess the water symbolism, so the fire must’ve been related to Harry. The riddles piled on. He’ll have to figure it out later.

Directly to their right, a plaque marked the liquor storage. Being so convenient, it was a no-brainer to make it their first stop, armed with the vain hope for a swig. 

And naturally, the bottles were too tight or simply empty. “So much for a refreshing drink,” Harry mumbled. “Two strikes. No drinking on the job.” Both were hankering for a warm forget-it-all and it was a toss up on which one needed it the most. Since nothing of real interest presented itself, they took their departure; though James looked longingly over his shoulder before he went. Oh, what he would give to finish off the night blissfully drunk. The burden of a budding alcohol problem hadn’t evaporated yet, and the teasing left him wanting - as was intended.

Their biggest obstacle then was to find a door that opened. Three additional plaques described the essentials formerly running the place were stationed behind them, but the pair weren’t repairmen, and so had no business poking around the boiler, pump, and electrical rooms. (James chose not to mention the boiler’s former availability to him, deciding it wasn’t crucial information.) That left a fifth and final chance, the store room, and both failed to be surprised that door number five was the winner. 

In the storage they found the usual fare: canned goods, powdered goods, (“Yuck. I hate powdered milk. And creamer. Ugh, gross, there’s actually powdered creamer here!” Harry sniffed. “Maybe this place was cheaper than I thought.” James didn’t say it, of course, but he kind of liked powdered creamer. If known, Harry would surely distrust him more) and some packaged dry food that would never see pot nor plate. Large, unlabeled cans stacked unevenly on the shelves and most importantly, two keys glinting off their flashlights on a higher rack got their attention. 

Harry grunted just like any ol’ dad would do as his reach finally got them down on the third try. (“Always third time’s the charm, eh?”) One key was silver and plain, the other brassy and attached to a tag. The plastic holder was dirty as ever and barely-seen numbers baited them from within. Unfortunately it needed some assistance to get it open, and nothing in here made itself readily available. Thankful for some kind of information and lead, the duo returned to the kitchen to find a knife to pry the thing apart.

“This is another great idea that’s not going to have any reparations,” the older man muttered under his breath, taking up a filet knife from the magnetized rack. Much to Harry’s dismay, he had to go without the makeshift protection of a hand towel, as they were nowhere to be found. Instead, he tried to carefully position himself to hold the tag with the least likelihood for a slip that could slice his palm while James supervised from a distance. Calling it a “distance” is pretty generous, considering James had mastered the art of invading Harry’s personal space bubble awhile ago. Because of this, the dangerous task was just a little more nerve wracking than it needed to be. Harry paused to frown at him. “Hi.”

There was a small delay until the acknowledgment kicked in. James met his eyes. “Hi.”

“If you get any closer, James, I’m gonna be expecting to be taken out to dinner later, or people will talk.”

That didn’t seem to compute, so Harry took a different approach. “Breathing down my neck is only gonna up my chances of de-gloving myself before I get this open, bud.” Nope; still too vague for him. Perhaps the third time’s the charm, indeed. “James, please, at least take a step back to watch the amateur work. I’m nervous as it is, so unless you wanna give it a go, I’m gonna need a small sliver of comfort so I don’t take a not-so-small sliver out of my hand.”

James obliged. An irritated sigh was his thank you. In monitoring the delicate chore he also just now noticed that Harry worked the knife in his left hand rather than his right. That was unusual. In thinking about it, he couldn’t recall if this entire time Harry had been swinging and working predominantly with his left hand, but his idle rumination got cut short by success. Harry exhaled relief, his shoulders dropping their tension. 

“Whew. Thank god.” The insert bore two numbers out of a smudged quartet and the last three, tiny letters of an address. How unforeseeable. “And we have another puzzle, folks,” Harry grumbled. An effort was made to clean some filth from the tag via his sweater’s hem, the result futile. He clipped the paper back into its safe box. The brass key went into a pocket, leaving the silver key to play Cinderella with.

None of the aforementioned doors wanted it. It too got pocketed. Passing through the kitchen one more time inspired Harry to give the swing door another shot. This time there was less resistance, and scraped open to a little lounge venue. 

Electricity mysteriously chose to grace the saloon in the form of the colorful glow of a jukebox in the corner. Upon entry, James automatically looked for differences (the jukebox not being one) and found that the desk lamp had relocated from the far edge of the bar to its middle. It stood upright and empty - which was not how he left it. Seeing the lamp made him realize the can of lightbulbs had also gone missing from the kitchen. Little details like these pinched his brow until the skidding draw back of a stool snagged his attention. All of a sudden, James realized he stood in the bartender’s spot.

The memory of a dive bar overseer silently serving him vodka tonics rose to the surface. Twelve a.m. and on his last leg of the three day journey to Silent Hill with a letter against his breast, James chose to drop in to wet his throat. Three drinks later, he chose a shot of whiskey to wash it all down - a glass that was rapped twice then overturned. He’d felt, ignored, and hated the eyes of the poor man’s psychologist behind the counter taught by experience and thus lacking a fancy PhD. James knew he saw right through him. The guy would see many more like him in as soon as another hour. This didn’t count as therapy, as nothing was said or solved in his favor. It only piled on the guilt harbored for the past three years of the lonely, pathetic life without Mary. 

No one stopped him after he paid, or when he tried to hide the drunken wobble upon dismounting the stool, or when he headed for the door. No cop would be called on him that night. So standing here in a place where self-made psychiatrists treated their patients with alcohol, overlooking a man that sought professionals in a small room decorated with degree after degree to prove their expertise rather than at the bottom of a glass, felt very symbolic and downright degrading.

James began to wonder if this was another instance of mockery, or if he was looking too far into things. It sure felt like the former. No matter which was the truth, these buried memories cropping up after all this time annoyed him. 

It’s incredible how much reminiscing and philosophical thought could fit into less than ten seconds. The whole event played in the background of James’s consciousness, coinciding with him staying present enough in the foreground to have seen and heard Harry make an important discovery.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” the father had breathed when he took the seat, and so triggered James’s flashback. Between them on the counter sat a notepad. It was standard sized and thick with thin, white pages. It lay glued to a red plastic backing, and a cone at the top held a fountain pen. Harry stared down at the notepad like it was some museum-quality artifact. James watched a writer’s natural instinct remove the pen from its holder and twist the middle to reveal it only a ballpoint. 

He also noted for the second time in their entire adventure together that Harry balanced it in his left hand. Even the pipe rested to his left. What an odd little detail this is to have gone undetected this whole time. “What’s that?” James finally asked as Harry tried to turn on a lamp that didn’t work, adjusted his flashlight for better reading, then began to flip through page after page of writing. 

“They’re my notes,” came the awed reply. At the middle he shook his head in disbelief, his eyes darting over the page, and then dropped them. Harry supported his jaw on his palm, pen angled from his cheek, and stared up at his stoic guide. “They’re my notes,” he repeated firmly, as though their apparent significance should mean something to James. “From my first visit.”

“You took down notes?” James eyeballed the pad. Harry sighed and directed his eyes down to it too.

“Yeah. I found notepads like these everywhere. But the first time I found one was when I woke up in the diner.” Now, when James heard the CliffsNotes version of Harry’s story, there was no mention of waking up in a diner. All he said was that he’d woken up from the car crash. James became steadily fascinated by how very private and vague Harry chose to tell the tale after being so open to telling other stories of his life. One would think sharing the nitty gritty would be beneficial in this situation, particularly after demanding the same from James.

Hypocritical bastard. 

“You woke up in a diner?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed distractedly. “And there was a notepad like this sitting on the counter. So I just.. I dunno, I thought I’d start journaling what was happening to me and maybe someone would see it? Maybe help me, or it’d help them? Yeah,” he parroted himself, rifling through the beginning. “I just stream-of-consciousness jotted down a whole bunch of stuff just to get it out, then I found more of these here and there so why not write some more since it kind of helped me.. process? Remember things? I— I don’ t know. It’s not like I was standing there for hours writing the whole fucking story with every little detail. I mean, there _ were _details that I thought would be useful for someone coming along and needing something, but..”

Harry shrugged and slumped forward. “It’s all here,” he sighed, gesturing at the pad. “All of it. I mean, _ all _ of it,” he continued, folding his arms on the bar. “I wrote maybe, god I dunno, six pages max at a time? They were probably a third of the size of this one. I don’t think I ever filled out an entire notepad. They were scattered all over the place, James. I never took one with me. I mean, look at it,” Harry urged, lifting the bunch from a random spot, the paper cascading from under his thumb. “Every single thing I wrote packed into one easy, convenient booklet. It’s nuts! It’s like someone went around and found everything I wrote and compiled it into one, _ in order _ . I don’t know how many pages this could be. A hundred? Maybe more? I didn’t even think I _ wrote _ that much. The pages are so small so it looks bigger, but I am just..” He slowly shook his head, dragging his hand over his mouth, and set his cheek on his fist. “I can’t believe it. It’s spooky.”

James lay the shotgun across the anti-slip rubber pads on his side of the bar and leaned into his spread, locked arms. He couldn’t read upside down but tried to study the veteran’s penmanship. Harry wrote in cursive (old fashioned, he thought, though his vintage school years probably influenced him for life) and at first, the jagged, flustered words were drawn at a modest size. Halfway down the page the letters got smaller and calmer, and when Harry turned to the next, smaller again. A glimpse of the mostly-obstructed second and third pages suggested the size stayed that way to fit in as much as he could and still be legible. 

James inclined his head to try to read some of it, and Harry turned the pad around for him. In his peripheral vision the older man rubbed his eyes and ran his hands repeatedly over his hair. “You should read it,” a weathered mumble told him. “I wrote a lot about the Order as I learned about it.”

He looked down. Harry’s handwriting ‘looked’ like him. The loops and drops were thin and masculine despite coming from a heavy hand. Their forward slant was steep, likely to compensate for essentially having to write backwards. Even if the words started hasty, they were readable. Perhaps James expected an author to have a doctor’s interpretive scribble. Harry’s cursive script was better appreciated right side up and suited him very well. James thought it handsome. 

The first page read:

_ My name is Harry Mason. I got in a car crash coming to Silent Hill. I have a daughter, Cheryl. She’s 7 years old and has short, black hair and dark eyes. She wasn’t in the car when I came to. I’m looking for her. I don’t know how I got to this cafe. I _

Instead of going on, James parted the heap under his thumb as demonstrated earlier and inspected the rapidly descending pages. “It’s a hefty read.” 

“Yeah, but be grateful it’s no Tolstoy or Victor Hugo.” The joke dropped flat for a man who didn’t indulge in books for fun or even bother to think about them. He picked a random spot to get some spoilers. 

_ about her. She looked as lost as I felt but it’s different to be lost in a place where you grew up suddenly turned into nightmares than a nobody waltzing in. She’s young. No older than 25. I asked her if she’d seen Cheryl + she said she didn’t. So I asked her about the stuff I found in the basement. She said she didn’t know. ‘Strict orders to never enter the basement.’ Still don’t know if I believe her or if I’ll see her again. _

He thumbed through a few more pages, eyes grazing the words rather than reading, then lifted another section. Harry gave his permission to read it, after all. Well, no - he _ insisted _ he should. This wouldn’t only cover the Order, but fill in all the manholes that broke up Harry’s story. It’s something to look forward to, and in the meantime, the suspense might drive him crazy.

James’s preoccupation with this memoir throwing back the curtain on the Mason family took dominance over his brain, enabling a tiny, watchful presence in the back of his head to stealthily peek through his eyes at the monumental account to go unchecked.

He turned the notepad back to Harry. “We’ll take it with us. Obviously.” James affirmed, wriggling the backpack off his shoulders and setting it atop the shotgun. He’d just unzipped it when Harry jerked back, wincing split seconds before a particular churning headache hit him, too. 

James knew exactly what that was.

“Ow!” Harry hissed, squinting hard down a red square glinting off the flashlight. The square filled up the page as much as its specific dimensions allowed, leaving white borders to frame it at the top and bottom. “Oh, what is— ugh!” He slammed his palm down and flattened the pile, grimacing until the tight pain subsided. “Okay. I’m over it. I don’t know what that was, but I’m completely over red things giving off headaches from hell. Oof.” He pushed the makeshift journal at James to put away. “That one felt bad and weird. Like someone was groping around inside in my skull.”

“Might be brain worms. Could’ve picked some up here.”

“Oh, yuck. Don’t say that, though you’d probably be—“

The transfer from bar to backpack jostled a rectangle folded several times over from its spot tucked between the last page and plastic backing. It flopped onto the line of overturned glasses separating service from customer then slid right off, presenting itself to Harry. All it was missing was a ‘tada’.

James hovered the notepad over the open backpack while Harry unfurled to unveil what they’d been searching for since the first day. “Oh, thank fuck!” He eagerly flattened it on the counter as best as one could a deeply creased page and looked it over. Yes, there it is: the elusive map of Old Silent Hill. “Ha, ha! About goddamn time, eh? Whew. I hope that’s a good sign.”

James leaned in again, eyeing it under their white lights. “I thought you were superstitious.”

The veteran warily searched his face. “A bit.. why?”

“I dunno, I seem to recall you scolding me earlier for jinxing puzzles.” Harry huffed and slapped the counter. James curbed a wide smile for a more acceptable small one at Harry’s expense.

“James, I’ll— I swear to god—“

“So is there a way to take back what you just said so we don’t get jinxed? Like how you’re supposed to throw salt over your right shoulder after you knock it over.”

“No, you take a pinch from the spilled salt and you throw it over your _ left _ shoulder,” Harry schooled the misinformed. “You throw it over your left and into the devil’s face. It’s reversing the bad luck to good luck. Some people take it a little farther and crawl under the table and come out the opposite side, but one: that’s not always practical, two: probably makes things awkward in polite company, and three: a little much, don’t you think?”

James slowly lifted his chin, turning his end of their staring contest playfully dubious. Harry’s low brows wrinkled further and, when the moment sank in, let James have another undeserved victory. He looked at the map. “Dickhead.”

The print was unmarked. Harry remembered jotting down annotations here and there with a red Sharpie he found in the cafe. When he’d gotten home, he couldn’t find the map in his jacket or his jeans. It’d up and disappeared. Ever since, Harry flip flopped between wishing he had it and never wanting to see another damn map of Silent Hill ever again. While enormously happy to have one in his hands for this rollercoaster ride, he was crestfallen that the original could be lost to the ages.

“There are two maps we’re going to need,” he reminded James. “This was only for Old Silent Hill. We need one for the neighboring Central Silent Hill, so keep that in mind, and eyes peeled.” James likewise told Harry to keep in mind that they needed to reorganize the backpack. The older man winced his apology: he’d totally forgotten about it. As the safely folded treasure found a home in the breast pocket of his leather jacket, he promised they’d get to the backpack later.

Cheeky curiosity tempted Harry to try the silver key in the lounge main door. Lo and behold, it unlocked and spit them right back out at the elevator. “Because that makes sense,” Harry grumbled. 

The elevator had concluded its duty and so closed its doors on them forever. A staircase ‘round the bend took them up to where they started beside the Lake View Restaurant. Both were itching to get out of this twisted funhouse, having finally found the valuable and long sought after map. Harry paused at the shut double doors and gazed wistfully at the handles. If there’s time for one more song, he’d come back, he promised piano within. 

Unfortunately, there would never be a ‘one more time’ here. 

James cast his eyes away. The tender dalliance with peace had been a surprising and welcome gift he had Harry to thank for, and the self-made widower would cherish that new memory. It’s unlikely he’ll ever hear him play again. For as unhappy Harry might be about it, the loneliness of the piece foretold the hollowness that James would undoubtedly feel when the Masons had left for good. 

What a bizarre feeling to have. 

A most wonderful sight hailed them when they entered the lobby. Grey light filled the windows and did its minimal best to brighten the room. Harry jogged hopefully to the hotel’s main doors and pulled one wide open.

There would be few instances where seeing the fog would be so relieving, and this marked one of them.

“Oh, finally. James, c’m—“ Harry started to call back over his shoulder to find his companion not only within shouting, but spitting distance next to him. “I still think we need to get you a bell.”

“I’ll put it on the to-do list.”

“Right, cuz number one is fucking _ leaving _. Let’s blow this joint. This place is gonna get a scathing review on TripAdvisor.”

Yet again a joke that required knowledge he didn’t have soared over his head. The explanation went unasked and unoffered as the pair of damned travelers departed from the Lake View Hotel armed with evidence, clues, and improved morality (even in the face of the fresh, gut-ripping traumas). They left behind a piano in tune after all these years, an argument that nearly cost them their partnership, and Room 312.

The father and the murderer, all in all, felt pretty good about their progress in spite of the zero star experience; they’d canvassed the place well and found what they went in for. Or so they believed. Or so they _ hoped _. A question hung over them as they crossed the border of property to street: we didn’t forget anything, did we?

No, they silently reassured themselves and each other. We got everything we needed.

The open medical book on the Lake View Hotel’s reading room desk fluttered its pages, then flipped itself closed.


	21. Men, Start Your Engines; In Three, Two--

When they got to the amusement park, they both kept their mouths shut. Not five minutes had passed before they reached the enormous, derelict walls and a sign pockmarked by orange, rusted holes. It once meant to merrily welcome potential visitors, but its heyday had been over for decades. Harry stood in the street and frowned down the wide footpath that bottlenecked to turnstiles. Though frustrated about how very, _ very _close they had been, both had to ruefully acknowledge that the hotel couldn’t’ve been skipped. 

James didn’t let Harry off the road. _ It’s not ours to go to, _ he told him. That’s all he said, and the way he said it raised the hair on Harry’s arms. They left it behind.

The new map led them on a mile and a half. Nathan Avenue became Sandford Street, and at the corner they turned due north on Bachman Road. James sensed trepidation coming off Harry. Their silence bore equal parts grim and venerating. A new world within Silent Hill opened for its South Vale citizen and his guts jittered in excitement. Perhaps Harry could likewise sense that from James, and if he did, he hatefully ignored it.

Beyond the perimeter of Old Silent Hill, Bachman met Bradbury Street. Upon entry they evidently crossed an invisible wall, for their initial step into the neighborhood brought them into ongoing snowfall. The men came to a mutual standstill in the crossroad. Harry had been right. James gawked at the puffy flakes drifting to the earth from a low, grey sky. When Harry’d described it James had believed him. He also thought he was full of shit, and had been prematurely sour that it’d likely been a one-time event specifically for Harry. But no: he stood in snow, and its natural beauty didn’t deserve to be here.

He wanted to say something. Nothing in particular lay on his tongue but he felt the need to say _ something, _and he looked at Harry for inspiration. 

There was a man beside him whose tired eyes were closed and had a faint smile resting upon his lips. Snowflakes passed over his cheeks and collected on his hair, never staying for long, while white dusted his shoulders and tumbled down his back. James found himself studying his profile, feeling like he’d only now noticed the incline of his forehead, the beak-like arch of his nose, the elfin point of his ear. There were many things about the veteran he hadn’t seen until the past couple hours; it was as though he were meeting Harry for the first time all over again. 

The snow fell in Old Silent Hill, and Harry Mason had once found peace in its silence, his face turned to the sky.

James felt like he was witnessing a re-enactment of a historical event. Seventeen years ago Harry lost his daughter here. Seventeen years ago he also took repose in the streets of Old Silent Hill and let the snow take him someplace soothing amidst a nightmare world. Seeing the way Harry truly seemed to be at ease in it and made jealousy tingle within James. He’d never found something like that for himself in his foggy dungeon. He wondered what Harry must’ve looked like those many years past, taking respite in improbable snow; or what he looked like then at all. 

Harry sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. He twisted the pipe in his hands and smiled at James. “Pretty, huh? Home sweet home.”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t it just fucking nuts?” He laughed and looked down, scuffing at the snow that never melted and never piled on inches. “Man. I can’t believe I miss this sometimes. I can’t believe I’m happy to see it, and I think that makes it exponentially worse. Whew. Alright,” he declared, clearing the moment to get back to business. “Let’s take a literal walk down memory lane, shall we?”

“You think you can remember everything? We have a map, you know.”

“Well aware. Don’t worry, we’ll use it. Somehow I don’t think Silent Hill is gonna do the ol’ switcheroo on us.”

James curled his lip. Really, did he have to continue to be stubbornly arrogant and naive? The scowl didn’t pass by Harry and he rolled his eyes in return.

“Come on, James. I know that’s tempting fate and fate gets off on it, but— alright. Lemme try again, then: gosh, I hope Silent Hill pulls something funky with the town layout, because I really think that’d really put a pep in my step!” Harry stated cheerfully, setting a hand firmly on his jutted hip and wagging the pipe agreeably at James. “I can’t rely on memory alone, as you know, even though I’ve had week-long _ very _ enchanting dreams about walking every square inch of the place. Memories do change a lot as time goes on, after all. Ha, not to mention all the therapy I’ve dumped money on to deal with all the trauma it gave me. Why, two different people even diagnosed me with PTSD. What a thrill, huh? Ho, hum,” he sighed dramatically. “I think we could really do with a good brain teaser, but if something’s different here then, why, I think I’d just about lose my marbles! Ha!” 

The sarcasm was outrageous. Nodding, he confidently took his fist, and weapon, over his heart, and thankfully James’s reflexes saved him from a future bump on his head. Something about the way the author smiled at the ground said that had been his intention, and the conduit frowned. 

“Yes, sir,” the older man sighed. “I really do think that’d be a grand o’ time. I sure would think back on it fondly, indeed.” Harry swung his arm to his side and rapped the grody metal on his ankle. “There. That oughta do it. After all the psychological torment we’ve been put through, how about we give it back with some cheeky reverse psychology, eh?” He nudged his elbow into James’s arm, tilting a charming and deeply corny smile to a face that held regret that he’d ever chosen to help him.

Harry strode ahead, absolutely feeling the remains of the flat, irritated glare on his back. The mirth drained in the mere seconds it took for his blond shadow to reappear at his side. Reality set in. He tried to keep his head held high through the fog, snow, and fear that braided together and whispered _ Welcome home, Harry Mason. _

Together they strolled down Bachman Road, its washed out, broken yellow line separating return visitor from inhabitant. Bachman took them more or less up the middle of Old Silent Hill. They passed a church that Harry pointed out as the Order’s haven. A church wasn’t the first thing that James would consider to be occult headquarters, but upon short reflection, it made an unassuming front for the ignorant passerby. 

Further up along the way it seemed that Harry was on the lookout for something. As soon as he found it, the conduit saw him walk briskly over to a smashed in cafe window. Harry immediately recoiled and when James caught up, so did he. 

A smaller glowing sigil matched the one back in South Vale and decorated the wall overlooking the dining counter like a clock. Its size didn’t lessen the pain it wrought and they quickly retreated to the road. Harry looked upset about it. James deduced that the cafe was the same one he’d let slip earlier. It reminded him of the written account he was so anxious to read tucked safely in the backpack. Soon, he thought. He’d unravel it all soon.

Farther north on their trail a large shape darkened the fog at the end of the road. James curiously wandered nearer and discovered a rocky cliff side draped across the street. So used to construction scaffolding and tarp blocking his way, this new, organic barrier interested him. He reached to touch it when Harry’s eager gasp grabbed his attention, and he rotated to see his larger figure jog into the grey. James softly frowned and meandered after him.

The mist parted for the devastating aftermath of a car crash. A red and white Jeep appeared to have veered right off the road, plowed through a chainlink fence, and the tall concrete border hosting the fencing caught it by its rear bumper and laid it to eternal rest. The car was destroyed. James stood dumbfounded at its red hood and looked up when the Jeep bounced and groaned from unexpected weight.

The glass windshield, though spiderwebbed with cracks and tinted by dirt, permitted him to watch Harry rifling through the car. James idled by - then a dim lightbulb metaphorically clicked on over his head. He realized he beheld a monument defining a cardinal piece of Silent Hill history. 

In 1999 Harry Mason was on his way to take his daughter on a vacation to Silent Hill when he careened off the road to avoid a girl running across. The father left the town broken, traumatized, and with a baby held tight to his chest. And this was the fated car.

Interesting. James regarded the Jeep thoughtfully, as though _ he _ were the tourist now. (Technically, this rang true; they weren’t in his neck of the woods anymore.) Its damage only came at the price of the crash; otherwise, he wagered that Harry once loved and took care of it. The car held great importance and oddly, he felt he stood on hallowed ground. He admired it and its broken glory. In contrast, his dilapidated vintage Pontiac, no more than an eroded grave, brought shame. These two differences spoke volumes of who they were: something cherished wrecked by unavoidable circumstance, and something willfully sabotaged through the years by the means of one’s own neglect.

Fitting. 

“Bad news, chief,” Harry announced, stepping out of the vehicle with a paternal grunt. “Keys are gone. Unless you know how to hotwire a car, we’re SOL.”

“We talked about that, Harry.”

“Oh, yeah. What’d we decide?”

James shrugged. Harry waited for an answer, and shook his head when he realized the shrug _ was _ the answer. He stepped back to take in his old, beloved, totaled Jeep and frowned. The hood had been opened, and whoever opened it didn’t shut it properly. On that foreboding note he tucked his thumb in the gap and pushed it up to blink dumbly at an empty engine compartment. If it was in any way valuable, it was gone. “What the hell? Who— how did they— why..?”

James leaned over to look in. “Huh.”

“Yeah, _ ‘huh’. _” Its former owner bent to search the interior and found no explanation. “Fuck me,” he muttered. “I’m feelin’ kind of disrespected here, and that’s saying a lot, considering.”

A few words rested on James’s tongue that Harry would’ve found funny if this development hadn’t been so personal. With a great, heavy sigh, Harry pressed the hood into place and tenderly patted it like one would a faithful old dog. “Nice to see you again, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll avenge you, too.”

From there, he retraced the first steps he’d made in Silent Hill a lifetime ago. Upon James’s questioning, Harry explained they were recreating the chase after Cheryl to the alley where the Otherworld made its introductions. He wasn’t thrilled with his own idea, of course; nevertheless, it was the best place to seriously start.

“You’re not afraid of dogs, right?” he asked James, passing through the squeaky gate and its canine warning sign. “I probably mentioned it, but we might run into a few of ‘em.”

“No. Only chihuahuas.”

“Oh, I’m with you on that one. Pomeranians, too. I don’t like the way they look at me. It’s those big, black eyes on such a small dog. Just like chihuahuas. It just looks wrong. Oh, and by the way,” he added nonchalantly, jutting his pipe at a large, ugly pile of entrails and flogged remains. “There’s the dog.”

It looked fresh.

The alley lived up to usual expectations. Wet, stale air lived between high walls of red brick and concrete, striped with piping. James saw Harry’s shoulders lift and drop on a deep breath. The veteran had been playing it pretty cool so far; he needed to for his own sake. But as he’d said, this is where the nightmare truly began. Nevertheless, every person has their limit. James had to wonder how long it’d be until Harry’s act fell apart. 

The path narrowed but its corners ballooned to make up for it. James eyeballed an unsalvageable wheelchair with its singular wheel idly spinning in one of these openings. Feeling the suspicious curiosity behind him, Harry glanced back at it. “No, James, I don’t think a miracle happened there.”

“Disappointing.”

“Funny to see it’s still spinning.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I dunno. A reminder that some things stay the same, I suppose.”

James hated to agree. 

“It got dark around here,” the patriarch recounted, gesturing to the area. He looked up at the grey and meager snowfall; it’d dwindled since they set foot in here. “Yeah. The snow stopped here, too, I think. Y’know,” he said back to his apathetic shadow, “I think it’s gonna be more terrifying if it _ doesn’t _ get dark. Funny how that works, huh?”

“Mm.”

The gurney was still there. Harry curled his lip at the sight of it and its cargo, humming a disgusted noise. He had almost passed it completely by when he did a double take and stopped to look it over. “Hm. Wait. Something’s different.”

James glanced at Harry, then the obvious corpse covered in a bloody sheet. “Something’s different?”

“Yeah.”

Wrinkles showed a frown on the blond man’s forehead. “It’s been seventeen years, Harry.”

“I know.”

“How are you going to remember a small detail like how a dead body under a sheet is going to look? You weren’t in here for very long. Right?”

Harry sighed irritably. “Yes. I know. It sounds—“

“So what’s different then? The blood stains? The position off a few degrees?” James looked at him. “Did you write this down too?”

The glare he received would have made a weaker person cower. “You’ve got some lip all of a sudden. No,” he replied, using his weapon to lift the sheet drooping off the side. An arm hung loose and flayed beneath the hem. “This is different.”

The sheet itself had been too short to completely hide the appendage. It needed a perceptive eye to find it and there was one person here whose eyes were all too keen. Another frown graced James’s brow as Harry’s weapon prodded the dangling hand. On one of the dried out fingers hooked a keyring with one tag and its key. James watched the pipe try to jostle it off so that Harry wouldn’t have to fetch it himself.

“I’m still not sold on it.”

“On what?”

“That you could remember that this was different. I didn’t even see the arm there.”

“Y’know, James,” Harry lightly began as he smacked the stiff, curled fingers, “I’ve been watching you a lot during our little escapade together.” The keyring jingled noisily. “And I’ve noticed something about you.”

James sized him up out of the corners of his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” he concurred, the inflection full of sarcasm. “Definitely.” The prize fell to the ground, and Harry raked it to himself to pick up.

“And what’s that?”

He exhaled knowingly upon seeing that this tag, too, suffered the curse of age. “If it goes on like this, we’re gonna need a bigger keyring to put all these damn keys on,” Harry muttered to himself, flipping the plastic over in his palm. The other side was clearer. “Julio’s Auto Parts,” he read aloud. James glared distastefully at him. “Great. Don’t you love this place? This whole key deal is getting redundant, though. Oh, oops. Don’t wanna jinx it.”

Harry pantomimed pinching salt off the air and tossing it over his left shoulder. There was no salt to throw in the devil’s face. There was, however, a keyring still - or once was - in Harry’s possession that would’ve hit him smack dab in the eye. The mistake dawned on him just as it sailed over his shoulder, and Harry turned his back to James to stare down at a joke gone tragically awry. James smirked at the back of Harry’s head; that was a hell of a gratifying dose of instant karma.

The gaffe kept Harry’s head down to avoid the smug satisfaction. James could bask in this all he liked, but as far as Harry was concerned, he was going to have the last word one way or another. 

“As I was _ saying _, I’ve noticed that you’re not very perceptive.” He frowned pointedly at him and pushed the item into his pant’s pocket. “You miss a lot of things, bud.”

James followed Harry walking ahead. He had to confess it was cute how he was trying to save face. “Like what? Where?”

“Back in South Vale.”

“Heh. You think so.”

“Sure seemed that way.”

“And how would you know? Didn’t it occur to you that I knew literally everything about it top to bottom, so everything you found was brand new to you?”

“Oh yeah, that occurred to me plenty. There were quite a few times I chalked it up to you glazing right over everything because it was like reading the phone book at that point to you.”

“Okay,” James said, a touch belittling as they turned the corner. “So can you tell me an instance where I ‘missed’ something?”

He waited. Harry didn’t give a retort. “I wonder how much you’re going to miss now that you’re in a place _ you _ know and I don’t.”

Still nothing. His cockiness slowly drained. James became annoyed; he didn’t think Harry would stoop low enough to give him the silent treatment over a little debate, let alone surrender without a friendly fight. They hitched a right and all that irritation got put on the back burner. 

The brick walls had transformed into chain link fencing crowned by barbed wire and doused in the oranges and browns of oxidation. They mimicked the alley’s blocky corners and created a wide, hexagonal clearing that hooked a turn into a narrower lane. Bright, fresh blood dripped from the twisted metal as though someone had thrown a bucket of the stuff onto it, and looking down, he was treading in a crimson puddle. James lingered a moment and looked back the way they came. Down one side of the path loomed concrete, identical fencing on the other. It looked misplaced under the gloomy blueish light overhead, like it had only meant to be perceived in the dark. And James didn’t catch wind of any of it, because he was too busy trying to get the upper hand.

Maybe Harry had been right about that after all. 

James caught up to Harry and quickly dodged an unanticipated cutting swing that violently clanged and shook the fence. He hastily backed up, avoiding the jerk of Harry’s arm preparing another hit. 

“Whoa, whoa, hey! Hey, hey, it’s me.” James defensively threw up his hands to a wide-eyed, unstable, tense man that had radically changed head to toe from embarrassed yet playful to ‘kill first, ask questions later’. That look was fierce and disturbing on a guy like him. Whenever he’d seen it - and to James, seemed incredibly, thankfully rare - it marked the only instances in which he feared for his own safety. A concept so foreign as that left an perturbing impact on him.

Harry’s fierce reaction also cleared his earlier assumption about the silent treatment. James could save the guilt over that for later.

He steadily brought his hands down when Harry lowered his weapon. Harry took soft, clipped breaths in his recovering panic, and shook his head once before going on. James let out his own held breath and cautiously stepped into place behind him at a conservative distance.

Their journey came to a dead end. James caught himself mid-stride and backtracked to avoid collision when Harry stiffly reversed a couple steps. Harry loitered at the mouth of another boxy dungeon, restlessly bouncing the pipe by his leg.

James edged aside to get a look for himself. A gutted carcass that reminded James of a butcher’s choice slaughter lay (he assumed) its own blood at Harry’s feet. In fact, the entire ground hosted a whole lake system of red ichor, fleshy clumps, and skeleton parts adorned by traces of stringy meat.

But the main attraction was a mutilated body strung up and crucified like a scarecrow by ladders of chicken wire fringed in gore. The head hung between putrefied arms, its bloated fingers stretching the torn remains of chunky black gloves. Its chin rested on soaked tatters of a once-blue shirt that did nothing to conceal a ribcage split at the sternum. Something thin and brassy glinted off the beam of Harry’s flashlight, sandwiched in the coagulated black mess beneath the bones. Cooked muscle and viscera connected the upper body to lower, and the legs suggested they were as carelessly shredded as the black pants it wore. Lastly, one lonely black boot crossed a naked ankle, bound tight in chicken wire like the twine on a roast.

The sight was as repulsive as it was grotesque. James hated to be so entranced by it. It felt cold-blooded to take it in like a piece of art crafted purely for shock factor next to someone actively suffering and reliving traumas from long ago. He further disgusted himself for wanting to get a better look up close.

Harry fidgeted anxiously and choked on a whine. James glanced at him. The veteran wasn’t doing very well here. His forehead glistened with sweat and he looked like a trapped mouse in a corner hoping to get a chance to escape and hide, but James was wiser. Though Harry looked scared he was in fact more dangerous, if the attempted bashing and murderous glint in his eye had anything to say about it. Kill first, ask questions later.

He didn’t want to have to worry that Harry could turn against him like that.

Above and around them, the atmosphere changed. James’s eyes darted to new hazy shadows, then drew them upward. Harry whipped his head back and gaped at the dimming sky overhead.

“No,” he whispered pitifully. “No, no, no no no no..” Harry frantically pivoted on a dime and led the mad dash for the only exit which was, woefully, back the way they came. 

Running and weaving through the lanes would have been less cumbersome without a loaded backpack and carrying a gun. James was agitated by the time they got to the bystreet. He adjusted himself and the straps while Harry bent over, supporting his quivering arms on his knees. The poor guy looked like he was seconds away from vomiting. Having no interest in watching that possible outcome, he took a gander at their surroundings.

Now they were out in the open again the snow resumed and the fog thickened. They’d left the glooming sky behind. James chewed on the how’s and why’s they’d fled from while Harry straightened, thrice ran his hand over his hair, and ambled away from James. 

Harry sought a bit of privacy in the frame of a garage door to finish pulling himself together. Though he was a man unafraid to show weakness, he resented how he’d reacted. He’d worked so hard for years with what felt like countless professionals to cope and even relive his hell. So much time had been spent retrieving what his brain forgot in order to protect him, jotting down details he didn’t think he’d ever remember, relearning to not be afraid of the dark. 

Those memories filled many notebooks and he frequently poured over them (an act his therapist chastised him for). That habit was proving beneficial. He made himself an even more valuable asset. But a new problem arose - he couldn’t fully recall what’d just happened back there. 

It was nice that his brain wanted to help him by filtering the horrors, but if Harry starts forgetting things, he was going to be less of an irreplaceable specialist and more like a severe impairment. Not only did James count on him now they were in his territory, but Heather did, and he himself, too. All he could do was monitor it along the way.

Harry ground his bent wrist into his eye socket and made one more pass over his hair. They couldn’t afford to dawdle, and he didn’t want to just stand around thinking about all these issues and what they’d seen, anyway. It was time to move on.

Harry cleared his throat and returned to James, pulling out the new keyring and the map. “Right. So. Julio’s Auto Parts.”

James studied Harry as he went over the map. He looked like shit. Everything that happened intrigued James on a new level. Getting to know this wayward father was being done in a roundabout way that he didn’t feel great about calling exciting, but unfortunately, that’s what it was. The more of the things he saw that shaped Harry Mason to be the person he is today, the more James wondered how innocent he could actually be. 

Harry stuffed the key into his pocket again and beckoned his guardian with the folded map. “Let’s go, soldier on. We’re just a hop, skip, and a jump away.”

James joined him at his side. Harry began to talk about suburban neighborhoods, likely inspired by the back alley driveway lined with garages they passed through. He tuned him out. Whatever Harry blabbered on about was to soothe himself, since his incessant talking was one of his coping mechanisms. It annoyed James. All that talking made it more difficult for him to do his own investigative thinking, and they hadn’t gotten to have their own time apart from each other in a while. Those days started to seem like they were over. They were probably going to need to work out a substitute not only for their own mental wellbeing but for the recovery they both really needed from each other’s drain.

But those worries were put on the wayside while James ignored Harry’s ramble and thought about the scarecrow in the alley. The archive was just _ waiting _ to tell him about it. He wondered who it had been, or if Harry knew at all. In Silent Hill, everything was connected, and James was starving to know what connected Harry Mason to fire and rust.


	22. Lazy Town

Julio’s Auto Parts, like every business here, had seen better days. The place smelled of industrial must and dust. And again, like everything else, the level of disarray was as though everyone vacated in such a hurry that only the essentials were taken - ravaged for, rather - and the whole mess abandoned. 

Harry and James conducted the usual ritual of scouring for the next clue. In the adjacent mechanic’s garage Harry found the disassembled guts of what once made his Jeep run. He was aghast. No matter how he looked at it, there was neither hide nor hair of reason behind it - and he did his damnedest to find  _ some _ kind of explanation. But alas and alack, he skipped mechanics in high school and it was finally back to bite him in the ass. All the parts looked dizzyingly complicated. Oh, how he wished he hadn’t been so lazy back then, and actually paid attention to his car nerd friends once in a while. 

While Harry lamented, James rummaged through papers and the desk. In the drawer he found a slip with a combination, making the next task finding the corresponding safe. It was easily located and opened, the reward being an invoice to Virginia’s Bridals. 

Scrawled over the print was a reminder to pick up a suit. Lucky for them, the receipt had the address. Unlucky for Harry, he didn’t solve the mystery of his Jeep. He left dismayed and unsatisfied.

Outside, a welcome party awaited them. The scorched and dripping women from South Vale had evidently decided they were lonely and relocated across the lake to hang out with their men. In the group of three the radio mimic acted as the leader and attacked first. The encounter lasted a handful of minutes, having gotten their methods down to a T at this point; however in the middle of combat, the real radio suddenly squealed. When the last monster was put down, it abruptly shut off. 

“Wow, thanks for the warning! Appreciate it. It’s great being prepared,” Harry snidely told James’s pocket. James grunted agreeably, and the pair moved on. 

They jimmied the lock on the bridal shop and let themselves in. Racks upon racks overstuffed with dresses waited for a happy lady and her big day. Mannequins, some missing their arms and heads, modeled the best of the best. Already feeling uneasy in here, the plaster, disassembled women (that they hoped would remain inanimate) worsened the emotion, as they acted like a grim symbol of the wives they’d lost.

In the back rooms they found tons of boxed stock and the seamstress’s station. There was one suit there, mostly light blue, that appeared to be in the process of being hemmed. It also needed to be dry cleaned; the rest of it was soiled with blood. 

“Somebody’s not getting their deposit back,” Harry remarked, going for the jacket folded over the back of the chair. 

The radio muttered just as he touched it. Both sprang to attention. A fight in this small, crowded space would be tricky. Nevertheless, they prepared themselves for the dance to the soft, melodious tune of static and screech. Seconds ticked by. They waited and waited, then looked at each other questioningly. The radio’s meager noise faded. Nothing came of the warning; nobody else was there but them. Harry exhaled sharply. 

“That thing’s been acting real funky lately.” He glanced at James’s pocket again, then up at him. “It makes me itch.”

“Too bad we can’t take a better look at it. Both of us skipped shop.”

“You know, you could solve a lot of technical problems by taking a hammer to ‘em. Actually, you could solve a  _ lot _ of problems by taking a hammer to them, but that’s pretty sticky territory.”

“You think it would help the radio?”

“Thing’s technically broken anyway, isn’t it? I dunno. I’ll bet you that Silent Hill wouldn’t expect us to bash it open. Who knows what we could find?”

James shrugged. “Maybe it’s a part of a puzzle.”

“Say the ‘p’ word one more time,” Harry warned, “and I’ll stomp on your toes.”

“Mm. That’s violent. I don’t think I deserve that.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t deserve a lot of things, but that might be an exception for you.”

James inclined his head as Harry returned to the suit. That statement could be interpreted in many ways. Due to the sincerity of which Harry undyingly possessed, it didn’t feel like a jab at him. What it  _ did _ sound like instead made him uncomfortable. His energy continued to drain. 

Harry chuckled as he rifled through the pockets. “Heh. Something old, something new, something  _ borrowed _ , something  _ blue _ ,” he recited. “That’s clever. Rent a blue suit out for your wedding and bam, you kill two birds with one stone.”

“It’s a nice suit. Too bad about the red wine stains, though.”

A smile slowly bloomed on Harry’s face. He glimpsed James over his shoulder and huffed a laugh. “Yeah. No kidding. Must’ve been a hell of a party.” 

To their dismay, the search turned up yet another key for their collection. Harry’s groan came deep and grating.

“Seriously? Is it gonna be like this the whole time?”

The conduit tipped his head from side to side. “Mm. Maybe.”

Harry growled at the old thing. It was rough and oddly sticky, and he preferred not to know why. No tag was present on this one: just a singular, unmarked, unknown key. “Well, this one deviates from the whole smudged address theme. Still, I’m about ready to blow my head off over this shit.”

James hummed. “What should I tell Heather?”

“Tell her that her dad died as he lived: pissed off and craving comfort food.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

“Thanks. Oh, and if you think of it, remind her that I want my urn to be that fish head cookie jar.”

James scrunched his face and shadowed the author through the showroom. “A fish head cookie jar?”

“Yeah.”

“Why a cookie jar in the first place?”

Harry set his hand on the knob and looked back at him. “Because I like cookies, James.” He slapped his thick belly with a grin. “You don’t get this kind of hot dad bod without putting in the hard work.”

He pushed the door open and they exited the building. James wore an unsure, mildly disgusted expression and glanced at Harry out of the corners of his eyes. The father seemed chuffed to bits about the whole cookie jar thing, and didn’t care to acknowledge the way James judged him. 

Mentioning cookies made Harry yearn for the normal world. It was a blessing that eating wasn’t a requirement in the tortuous carnival called Silent Hill, as nothing here would be of any holy or nutritional substance. When he gets home, he resolutely told himself, he’s gonna shove an entire pack of Oreos into his face. Oh man, how he could really go for some pumpkin spice Oreos right about now. That would certainly make him feel a lot better about things. 

This was their first riddle without a hint for direction. A change of pace could be appreciated now and then, but of course it didn’t soften the frustration over the multiple keys and Harry’s complaining about it. James chose to remind him then that he  _ had _ tempted fate before with the flippant comment about brain teasers. The look he got for being such a smartass jut a half smile into his cheek.

Consulting the map, Harry picked a direction and off they went. They very nearly went off the edge of the world, too, and Harry flung his arm over James’s chest as a barrier to back them both up away from the edge of a road turned steep canyon. 

James shot the older man a scowl for such a jarring move, then he saw why. Intrigued, he sidled closer and peered into the foggy, dark abyss. Harry carefully shuffled a little nearer as well, taking a much more hesitant gander downwards. They stared down into it in silence, then Harry shook himself out and stepped away. “Well, that’s out, huh? We should probably go let the town council know about that pothole.”

He began to walk off, but the absence of the click of another pair of boots turned him around. James was still evaluating the pit. Frowning a little, Harry tapped his pipe on his calf and whistled for his attention. “Hey. James. You comin’?” When his companion refused to budge, he took it as a pretty clear no. “What, do you see somethin’ down there? C’mon. I don’t think Silent Hill sells spelunking equipment and even if we did find any, I’m gonna put my dollar on none of it being up to code.”

At last, James lifted his head and eyed his ward over his shoulder. “Is this normal?”

Harry shrugged, looking at the jagged edge. “Yeah. Well, it was. Roads are out like that all over town. Kind of pants-shitting, isn’t it?” He smiled. “Sure is a way to test your situational awareness and reflexes, huh? Always look where you’re going, and both ways before you cross the street.”

James drew his brows lower, took one more look into the deep, and then chose to join him. “That seems gratuitous.”

“Gratuitous. Whaddya mean by that?”

“You’re already in a dangerous place,” he replied. “Slicing a road in half to keep you caged in one spot seems over the top.”

“Isn’t ‘over the top’ kind of a part of the foundation here?” They strolled away together, automatically separating themselves on either side of the broken yellow line. “I was just as surprised to see the construction barriers back in South Vale. Hey, I was kind of jealous. Running into a tarp or scaffolding is way safer than getting cornered at the edge of a cliff. Or accidentally running right off it.”

Yeah, Harry had a pretty good point, there. One ought to celebrate the little blessings of this damned world. 

They made a circle back around to the 5to9 Cafe. Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that little mom and pop shop. He felt it was unjust that the sigil was branded there, watching over the place like a security guard armed to the teeth; the diner was like a sacred place to him. But there was something in there for him, he was sure of it. If there wasn’t, then why would that thing be up there? It was all part of the grand plan. The pair stood at a safe distance from the storefront and scrounged up a method of attack. 

“I say we just go for it. Bust in, look around, get out.”

“Mm. That doesn’t give us a lot of time for a thorough search. That thing hurts like hell. It affected us from the sidewalk. It’d be easy to miss something.”

“Yeah, I know. It’ll be hell and high water doing anything in there. Man! That thing’s such a fucking mystery. I hate it. Did you ever find shit like this that wanted to blow your head open?”

“Hm. Not really.”

“Hm. Weird. I guess you’re pretty lucky for that. I wish I knew what it was. We gotta tackle that thing and the red square in the notebook. .. eh.. I imagine we’re gonna figure it out at some point.”

“So basically we have no other plan other than rushing in.”

“Seems that way. Unless you’ve got something better bouncing around up there.”

“Nope.”

“Welp, then that settles it. Hold on to your ass, here goes nothing, right?”

So the siege began. Harry charged forth and threw open the door, the sigil’s psychic thorn penetrating their skulls before they’d even touched the sidewalk. The pain instantly swelled in their heads when they crossed the threshold, very nearly outright debilitating them. Just to add to their immediate problems, the smell and dusty air of smoke swarming the air made it harder to see anything. They scrambled blindly to make a sweep, not knowing what they’re looking for but hoping to god it’d jump out at them. 

James got caught on a chair by the way of his jacket and struggled with it, but the swivel and overbearing agony in his head gravely hindered his coordination. He folded over the back of the chair, clawing at his scalp. Harry tried to help but their window was shutting too quickly to spend wrangling him, and so had to abandon James for the time being. He ducked behind the counter and into the kitchen.

Something was definitely burning. The thicker smoke made him cough and its sting watered his eyes. It was coming from the oven. He yanked the door open and let out a billowing cloud of black. Combined with the head splitting throb it made him double over, choking and coughing, and he pushed his arm against his face to attempt to mask it. 

Using the pipe, he tried to catch the rack on it, but the hook was on the wrong end, and he hastily fumbled to turn it around. The rack clattered down and the roast pan it held bounced forward. In the pan was a glass bottle. Harry spun in place, desperate to find a towel. One awaited him on the grill and two attempts later he had the item, as hot as expected even through the fabric, in his protected fist. 

Harry returned to the dining room, bodily shoving James off his snag, then pushed the pipe across his back to help corral him out of the cafe. They stumbled onto the street and as far away from the place as possible. James tripped over the curb and hit the ground hard, groaning in a new pain and rolling achingly onto the backpack like an overturned turtle. Harry managed to avoid taking a tumble too, instead crashing against a wall to come to a dead stop.

The veteran hacked out the rest of the smoke and gasped for air. Their headaches abated in tandem. Harry slid to the ground and sighed deeply. James lay on the sidewalk, propped up on an uncomfortable angle. He readjusted his body and sank into the cement.

After a long segment of recovery, Harry finally looked at what he had. “Oh— are you fucking  _ kidding _ me! God  _ fucking _ dammit!”

James lifted his head and twisted to look back at him. Not a beat later did the radio bubble and tune, forcing them to their feet as a trio of monsters emerged from the mist. Harry took one look at them and declared, “Fuck that!” and motioned to James to follow. 

They ran from battle. Halfway up the street the siren started to wail and the neighborhood darkened. There was a convenience store dead ahead and they were lucky it was unlocked. After barging in, they dragged a rack to barricade the doors and trampled its few fallen products underfoot. The radio and siren receded. They were temporarily safe. 

James sniffed and looked at his accomplice. Harry was leaning forward on the counter, holding something that clicked and clunked as he handled it. He drew closer, taking a view over the survivor’s shoulder. “What’d you get?”

Harry exhaled sharply and held up a glass whiskey bottle that contained a wooden rod, a screw and nut halfway through it, a hooked metal bar shoved through the base and a loose ball rolling around it all at the bottom. Trapped between the nut and rod hung, who would’ve guessed it - a key. This one, at least, had a thin slip of paper taped around it. Even James rolled his eyes into the back of his head. “Oh, come—“

“Yep. You betcha. Another. Fucking. Key.” The contents rattled loudly as he shook it. “And to spice it all up, it’s in a  _ literal _ puzzle. God fucking dammit. This town is  _ determined _ to take the joy out of everything. I was starting to get into stuff like this, and great! Now it’s one more thing potentially ruined for me.”

“You’re gonna have to really branch out after this.”

“No kidding.” Harry sighed out the weight of the world and looked it over. “Well.. I’ll get to it. Get comfortable, James. It could be a long night.”


	23. Hitting The Bottle

“Hhyeup.”

James watched Harry heft himself up onto the counter. The older man crossed his ankles and wedged the bottle between his knees so he could wriggle his jacket off. It was draped unceremoniously over an empty rack beside him, flashlight fetched and clipped into his sweater. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

“You realize we could just smash the bottle and get the key, right?”

Harry slowly lifted his eyes. He stared into the store, then took his blank look to the conduit. James squinted back at him with a smirk. “Oh, shit,” Harry said. “You’re right.”

“Well, that was an easy puzzle. Next.”

Harry stared dumbly down at the bottle. He shook it gently, feeling as idiotic as he looked. “Hm.” Quiet filled the space while he thought it over. “Hm,” he reiterated. “I.. yeah, you’re right.”

James slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and waited. The veteran perched there on the counter appeared truly mystified by an answer so obvious. It forced him to bite back his smile. 

“Uh.. yeah.. we _ could _ do that. I mean..” The author’s posture slumped. In stark contrast to his bemoaning a minute ago, he now seemed deflated. “Wow. Talk about a brain fart.”

“You could give it a try anyway. We’re stuck here for a while. If you can’t figure it out by dawn, we’ll smash it.”

Still, Harry was disappointed. “Yeah. I guess.” Another pause stood between them. He sat up straight, raised his arm high, and chucked the bottle to the tile floor. James jumped instinctively back, anticipating shattering glass; but there was none. The bottle bounced like a baseball and rolled under a display. Both stared after it, stupefied. Harry pursed his lips. “Hm. Okay. Sure. So an anti-logical thinking measure was taken. Well played.”

James fetched the bottle and inspected it. “Yeah, I guess. It’s not even cracked. The glass isn’t that thick, either.”

“Now we both look like morons,” he said, accepting the puzzle back. “How’s that for a plot twist?”

Green shoulders shrugged, and maroon ones dropped. “Okay. I’ll get on this,” Harry grumbled. “You do whatever it is you wanna do.”

“I think I’ll do a little shopping.”

“Great idea. Hope you didn’t forget your coupons.”

He clicked his tongue. “Ah, left them on the table.”

“You always do. What do I keep telling you, James? Put them in your wallet or in your coat and you won’t end up forgetting them.”

“Eh, next time.”

Harry chuckled softly, already tinkering with the piece. “Yeah, sure. Dumb blond.”

James shot him a look and began to stroll away. “Real mature.”

“I like to live up to expectations when I can.”

Shaking his head, James turned down an aisle. Time-weathered labels, from pancake mix to powder detergent, tried to entice the curious, but this customer wasn’t interested in either. The clinking and soft muttering served as the background noise, which was soon shut out when James went into the back. 

As he cruised the alleys behind the once-cold fridges, he thought about the way they bantered. Every now and then James could play a successful round of word ping pong against Harry’s artful maneuvers. He spotted his charge through the dusty glass and empty shelves. Harry was as he left him, hard at work with the puzzle, his frustrated face illuminated from the bottom by his flashlight. James paused to watch. The lighting made him think of spooky campfire stories; children gathered around a fire, wide-eyed and clutching onto every word. Being a writer, Harry must be a hell of a verbal storyteller, too. He’d already demonstrated that he was rather verbose. James softly frowned. 

A memory of a Boy Scout trip into the local campground cropped up. James had enjoyed it. It’d been a nice getaway from the bland, dreary home life he led. The event was fuzzy. All he got were distant emotions about it rather than any visuals, but the fact he remembered it at all was troubling. More and more often he was _ remembering _. He’d had nary a spit of things from his life before since Silent Hill had him crawling out of the lake. Too many problems, too much time to ruminate, and too many of them connected right back to Harry. 

James wove his way out of the maze. He distracted himself by poking his nose into other people’s business, not that it mattered, anyway; the tenants were long gone. Employment applications and shipping invoices were spread on a desk in a tiny little office beside an even tinier space that looked like a break room. James jostled the drawers and half-heartedly moved the contents around, looking for something and nothing. In the break corner - not a room, just a crammed corner bearing one metal chair and a milk crate - the space was mostly taken up by a mini-fridge. As though he didn’t experience enough horrors, he pulled open the door and expected a sentient science experiment to leap out at him. 

To his grateful surprise, there were no creepy crawly leftovers or even blood splatters. Right in the middle of the rack sat a bottle of chocolate milk. If that wasn’t strange enough, James discovered that the fridge was a little cold. He stuck his hand in there and felt the bottle. It was cool. Making a face, he closed the door and checked for a plug. There was a plug and there was an outlet, but they weren’t intimate. He stepped away and frowned down at the compartment. Weird. Very weird.

And even weirder, it felt familiar.

James sighed and slowly spun in place. There was nothing of real interest here, but once again, he didn’t know what he was looking for. He never knew what he was looking for. The first runaround in his first days was a blind wild goose chase - much like the same kind that Harry had dealt with. He idly wondered how far Harry got around in this neighborhood; what buildings were closed to him, what others beckoned. The cafe was a real interest. If only the sigil hadn’t been there, perhaps he could’ve gotten some information that would have answered some of his—

His posture straightened. He _ did _ have answers: they were right there, waiting for him, on his back. James’s odd heart quivered with excitement. This was the perfect time to start in that heavy reading. Harry encouraged him to pin up his dirty laundry, and by god he’ll do it with enthusiasm.

The claustrophobic office became his reading room. By the light tucked into his front pocket, he started to unravel the mysteries of the Masons. Thank god Harry’s cursive was legible; he couldn’t imagine having to sit next to him needing him to read back his own handwriting and perhaps not being able to discern it himself, or worse, lie about it. James wouldn’t have been able to soak it in like that. Harry would have too much control. So thank fuck that even though the man was left handed, he cared enough about his penmanship that he made sure it was coherent to the average Joe. It was a pleasure to read.

Yes, he offhandedly acknowledged for the second time: Harry’s handwriting was handsome.

It suited him.

James was so engrossed in this little history lesson that he didn’t hear Harry calling for him until the door to the back room loudly pushed open. He shot up in his seat and flailed with the notepad like an office worker caught reading a porno magazine at his desk, covering it with both hands just in time for Harry to lean in the doorway.

He must’ve looked like a deer in the headlights because Harry grinned and popped himself out of his sight. “Oop. Sorry. I should’ve knocked.” 

Harry rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. James’s startled embarrassment dropped to a flat scowl. 

“Knock knock. Hey boss, you decent? I gotta question.”

If Silent Hill didn’t outright kill this man, James would be happy to pick up the slack, one way or another. He wondered how Heather put up with her father. _ Who the fuck says ‘knock knock’? _ “What.”

“I mean, if you’ve got a minute. If you’re really busy, I can come back later, but uh.. it’s kind of time sensitive, so..” Harry could feel the eye roll on the other side of the wall. His grin widened.

“What do you want, Harry.”

“Well, uh, I’ve got a little problem. But I don’t want to bother you too much with it; I mean, I probably _ could _ work it out myself, but I’ve been at this for awhile and it’s starting to make me look and feel _ real _stupid, and it’s just doing a number on my self-confidence and my ego, here, and I dunno if you noticed, but I’m really attached to my ego..”

James stared hard at the ceiling. Frank Sunderland had had his embarrassing dad moments, and maybe would have appreciated some of this nonsense, but James reckoned that before long even he would feel awkward around Harry. Heather sure must be a trooper. “Stop beating around the bush, what is it?”

Harry peeked into the room. “Are you gonna write me up?”

“No.” The conduit leveled a stale glare. “I’ll fire you.”

He whined. “Aw, c’mon. I really need this job.”

Even though he was still rightfully annoyed, these asinine little roleplays could be kinda fun. Harry’s pleading face could win an award. This was all stupid, and James was a little disappointed that he enjoyed it. That aside, none of his feelings about it reflected on his face. “Not my problem.”

“Help me out here, just this one thing. I promise. It won’t take too long, then you can get back to whatever you’re reading.” Harry glanced at James’s hands hiding the pad. “That looks like something you probably shouldn’t be looking at on the clock...” He smiled, shrugging. “Just saying.”

An exasperated sigh later, James beckoned him in and pushed the notes to the side. “Shut up. What is it?”

“What’s the matter? You don’t take well to a little friendly blackmail?” Harry set the unsolved bottle puzzle on the desk. James eyeballed it. “You wanna give this a shot?” he asked. “I think my brain is too fried to keep chipping at it.”

James took the puzzle and turned in his hands. Harry gauged the space between the other side of the desk and the wall, and the crummy folding chair wedged between them. There was no way he’d fit in there. That was too bad. He looked down at his guardian fussing experimentally with the riddle.

“Well?”

“Yeah, I’ll play with it,” James muttered. “It looks more complicated than it is.”

Harry shrugged. “I put my faith in you.”

He earned a grunt. Since he dropped that chore onto the younger man, he made it his turn to go perusing the store. James heard him open the mini fridge and scoff. “Hey, there’s a bottle of chocolate milk in here.”

“Wouldn’t advise opening it,” came the reply.

“No shit? I’m afraid of even _ touching _ it. It might talk to me.” There was a pause. “This thing’s still cold.”

James sighed irritably. “And unplugged. Don’t worry about it, Harry.”

“Oh, the charms of Silent Hill,” the author muttered. The fridge door dully closed, and moments later, so did the entryway back into the store. 

When James was alone again, futzing with an actual physical puzzle, he idly (and frustratedly) pondered the riddle of the keys. There were so goddamn many of them. It was getting to a point where it felt tedious. On top of that, these trails felt disappointingly plain, as though the town forgot how to craft a proper runaround. Instead, it was resorting to half-assed clues and all their quests were handed to them like a to-do list. Take this, go here; it was easy. Too easy. It veered far from what James hates to call ‘normal’ and left him suspicious and frustrated. Overall it was annoying, but not as annoying as this godforsaken bottle. 

In the midst of his work, whispers rippled through his head. His hands slowed. James listened; his work went on mechanically. The town tittered until it faded away, characteristically coinciding with his solving the puzzle and Harry’s return.

Harry leaned in just as James fetched the key. He scoffed, setting his forearm on the door jam and leaning into it. “Are you kidding me?”

James held up the new addition to the collection by its ring. “Tada.”

“You clever son of a bitch. Good job.”

Harry palmed the offered key, then picked the paper off. He sighed. “Post office. _ I’m _ about to go postal. You starting to feel like this is getting droll? It’s like they’re not even trying anymore. That, and the clues are so blatant it’s like we’re being called stupid, or being treated like toddlers. Hell, they’re not even clues! They’re more like, I dunno.. scavenger hunts, except we pretty much have the answer list.”

James glanced at him. It was getting disquietingly eerie that they were on the same page more and more often. “Yeah. I’m not a fan.”

The aging man shuffled the two steps in and perched himself on the edge of the desk. “Me neither. It bugs me.” Harry turned the paper over. “‘B.C.. Neat. I guess we’ll be looking for a B.C. when we get there.”

James observed Harry maneuver the key onto a ring now bearing all the others that they’d picked up so far. His eyes slightly narrowed; Harry’d decided to not only keep, but use one of the ones from the lodge for the keys’ safe keeping. The Lake View Hotel tag read 312. Regardless of whether or not he meant to keep that one in particular, enough anger simmered in James that it warranted a spoiled mood he’d have to keep deep and hidden from Harry for now. 

Asshole. 

“I see you’re getting started on my notes, there,” Harry said. “How far are you?”

James looked at the pad. “You arrived at the school.”

“Mm.” Harry picked up the bottle and rod, looking them over. “Did you know that you don’t truly solve puzzles like these until you put them back together?” He threw a glance over his shoulder. “It’s true. You should see some of those guys on YouTube. They get these wild puzzle boxes, take ‘em apart, and put ‘em back together. It’s even harder that way. Totally nuts. It takes them a good few hours to get it all back together. I love that shit. It’s a great rabbit hole to go down. Especially when you’re procrastinating.”

His stoic, grumpy cohort silently pulled the reading material back over. Harry studied him, then got to his feet, suggesting they move back to the front. James agreed, so they did. Once there, Harry hoisted himself up onto the counter again, crossing his ankles while James got comfortable on the floor. “Let me know if you have any questions,” he quietly offered. James grunted, and got back to reading while the wayward father tinkered with the bottle until black gave way to grey. 


	24. Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ

The run around the neighborhood took them a few days to complete. Harry played tour guide now that they were in _ his _ stomping grounds and pointed out some of the buildings he’d described in his notes. He’d been choosy about where they went. James got time to pick at the reading here and there to understand why, though their fan club sure was insistent about following them around. There was one night where they were essentially stuck outside in the dark for its duration, and that was no cakewalk. 

It really didn’t help that the radio continued to malfunction. 

Eventually they decided to stop lollygagging and move on to the neighboring area. James hadn’t gotten to the part yet where the bridge had been out, so Harry gave him some spoilers. They were fortunate that his fix from long before was still intact. 

A couple encounters later they were in Central Silent Hill. They would need to procure a map for this area, but until then, relied on Harry’s memories. Some roads were out, and it seemed like they were more common here than the next section over. It was hard to fully gauge that, though; Harry had, again, seemed reluctant to take James on a full tour of that neighborhood. From what he’d read, James couldn’t fault him for it. 

By chance they located the post office, and the key fit just fine. The lonely lobby ended at a tall counter and a door to where all the mail magic happened - and it was locked. It left them pondering the next move. James deduced there was only one other way to get past, and so he climbed ungracefully over the counter. 

Harry stared at him from the other side. James was young, lean, and somewhat nimble. Harry was middle aged, bulky, and not at all nimble. It proved a feat helping him up and over, but they managed to the tune of muttering about getting old and going to the gym. 

There were a lot of forgotten packages to sort through. Albeit with the two of them on the case, it took what felt like too much time to locate the parcel with matching initials. Harry passive aggressively dropped the package on a table, sore at the sight of not only B.C. having stood for Balkan Church, but the full name written above it on the return address. 

Dahlia Gillespie was still a stranger to James. The frantic hide and seek competitions they’d unwillingly played the past couple days strongly contended against finding the time to catch up on his reading. He had some paltry hope he’d grab more than a few moments to get through at least three pages and figure out whatever the hell ‘gyromancy’ was. James tilted his head to read the outgoing address. 

Evidently, the Order had meant to send whatever was in it out to a gentleman in Utah. Now, that was quite a ways away from good ol’ Maine. Harry wanted to believe that the Order was only a local problem, so holding this troubling suggestion in his hands gave him the sinking feeling of failure. He ought to have been keeping up on monitoring the cult in the past few years. Things had just gotten too busy with Heather, or so he tried to fool himself. In reality, he’d slipped into the mostly-blissful comfort of fatherhood and brushed off every nagging thought that he should be keeping his tabs on the Order up to date. Oh, well; live and learn. Maybe this’d discourage slothfulness in the future.

The damn thing was heavy and wrapped a hundred times in tough packing tape. It needed an axe to cut into it, Harry complained. A hunt for a box cutter or something else as sharp and potentially deadly turned up null. They had no choice; the box had to come with them. 

After checking the door to get out, it became clear that they’d have to leave the way they came. James went first, and Harry clumsily followed. One patronizing smirk and an indignant huff later, the pair left the building with the mystery package. 

Next on their list was opening it. By dumb luck they found the police station, and even better, no circus act was needed to get into the work room. Harry was glad to put the box down on someone’s messy desk; his arms were getting sore. They commenced a fresh look around and along the way found a couple dirty, useless guns and more ammo. The ammo reminded them, yet again, that they absolutely needed to sort the backpack. “Don’t fucking forget the next time we have a chance,” Harry scolded both himself and James. “You’ve been a soldier about that, so we need to lighten your load.”

James somewhat appreciated the sentiment (though the compliments were getting more draining each time) but had no thanks to return. The men parted ways to canvass the area more thoroughly with the understanding not to go too far. It served as an effort to get a little distance to recoup themselves, and they hid how they were a little too eager for the break from each other.

James left Harry in the policeman’s galley. He lazily wandered a hall of locked doors and uninteresting bulletin posts. Dawdling could only get a man so far, and soon he was poking his nose into the unlocked bathrooms at the end of the hall. The ladies’ didn’t have a speck of interest for him. Moving to the men’s, he found a dramatic scene right out of a horror director’s wet dream. He stood in the threshold with the door propped open and surveyed for all terms and purposes, a crime scene. The irony wasn’t subtle. 

From nearly floor to ceiling and wall to wall, blood streaked, splattered, and pooled on the lavatory floor. It was a mixture of old and new, he reckoned, as brushes of flakey orange and brown led to wet-looking, dark red puddles. The largest puddle was centralized around a useless drain that needed a brave plumber to clean out the gummy old secretion blocking the way out. One of the urinals along the wall was broken into pieces. James eyed the other two; their overflow most certainly was not for the faint of heart, and probably not the worst sight in this place as of yet. Naturally, this ostentatious spectacle was meant to be seen so he stepped in to investigate. 

There was so much carnage that it looked like someone had sliced an artery and performed an interpretive dance about it. That was actually pretty close to fact. In the handicapped stall, a fat body drenched black by gooey old blood had its head caught in the likewise disgusting toilet. The sight didn’t shock James. However, it did look like it may have been a suicide attempt. The cadaver’s wrists were slashed on an axis. Judging by another slit and pour from the neck, some effort was made on that artery too. Smudged boot tracks implied the policeman had panicked, slipped in the red mire, and fell face-first into the toilet for an eternal nap. James wrinkled his nose at the inelegantly executed methods but also at the tug of familiarity at his brain. He chose to leave it and checked the smaller stall beside it.

Pattern predicted a porcelain bowl nearly filled to the brim with noxious soup, so there it was. The grossness was nothing special to him. James jadedly looked it over until something solid and silver snagged his flashlight and eye. He tilted his head, examining the fermented undesirables and the present lurking within. Nothing was an accident, everything was connected, and James made peace with that a lifetime ago.

“James? Hey, Jaa-aames,” Harry called for him, jiggling doorknobs and knocking on the panels along the way until he found the right door. “Hey, I— oh. Wow. This is somethin’. What the hell happened in here, someone have a bad case of the Mondays? Yikes.” He moseyed over to the stall that previewed his cohort’s jeans and boots at the bottom. “Hey buddy, you good in here, or— oh, _ that _ is a fucking horror show!” Making a strangled, visceral noise, he leaned far back and wished he hadn’t peeked around James’s shoulder. Mucky toilets in Silent Hill weren’t a new concept to him, but they sure were in the top ten of things he hated most about this place. “Ugh, don’t tell me that came from _ you _—“ 

He abruptly cut himself off. Repulsion dropped like a piano on his head when he realized he had caught James in the process of rolling up his sleeve. “James, what— what are you doing?” The cuff folded higher. Harry shook his head, losing his color every second the implication cemented the incoming reality. “No.. no, James, come on, don’t— JESUS _ CHRIST, JAMES! _ Oh, what the _ fuck _ !” he yelled as the blond fellow fearlessly groped around in the stew. Harry threw his hands into his hair and backed up, nausea instantly swelling his throat. **“_No! _ ”** he strongly berated him like a misbehaving dog. “God dammit, James, what the _ fuck _ is wrong with you?!”

James turned around to a man nearly white as a sheet and a little green around the gills. “What?” He held up his dripping, vile hand and the item he went rooting around for. Harry gagged at once, and he frowned. “I found an X-acto knife.”

“You _stuck_ your_ bare_ _hand_ in a gross fucking_ toilet, James!_ Why would you _do_ that?!” The conduit gave him a vapid shrug. Harry’s eyes darted wildly over him, then whipped one hand from his hair to gesture urgently at James’s arm. “No, no, come on, you’re _dripping!_ It’s fucking dripping down your arm, aw come _on, man!_”

Annoyed at such an obvious overreaction, James obliged him and started to roll his sleeve down. He stopped short when Harry harassed him again. “Oh no, no no no, do _ not _ tell me you’re not gonna wash your hands. Do _ not _ roll your sleeve down like that.” 

James opened his arms, frustrated. “What do you want me to do, Harry?”

Harry looked alarmed. “What do you mean— are you serious?” The mutual stare left a beat between them. “Are you fucking dense? _ Wash your HANDS, James!” _He thrust his finger at the sink. James looked at it, then at the author.

“It probably doesn’t work.”

“Well, fucking _ try _ it!”

James gave a moody sigh and did as he was ordered. Miraculously, the squeaky knobs made water flow from the faucet. For the first time since his arrival, James rinsed his hands under icy cold, but clear running water. After he turned it off and shook out his hand, he resumed turning down his sleeve when Harry disrupted him again. He rolled his eyes to him; they both looked exasperated.

“Soap. Use soap.”

He glanced at the muddy dispenser. “You sure? It probably won’t work, and I doubt anything good’s in there.”

“Please, James, humor me _ one _ more time.”

James sourly complied. A translucent orange glob dropped into his palm. Both amazed and peeved that these things worked, he ran the water and got a good lather going to appease Harry’s standards. He washed off the tool while he was at it, and when all was said and done, he turned to Harry with dripping, but clean, hands. “Better?”

Harry nodded sarcastically. “_ Yeah _.” He exhaled deeply, watching James wipe his palms off on his jeans and finally roll down his cuff. “You were just gonna not wash your hands?”

He straightened himself out and looked at him “No.”

“And _ why? _”

“Because I didn’t do it the last few times. And I didn’t think the water would work.”

Harry couldn’t be more scandalized. “Excuse me, _ ‘the last few times’? _ You’ve done this, you’ve reached into disgusting shit bare-handed _ before? _”

James shrugged. Harry dropped his arms soundly to his sides and wryly scrunched his face. “You know what? I don’t wanna know. I don’t wanna think about what that means. This whole time, you— ugh, _ yuck _.” Harry passed him, exchanging incredulous glares. “You’re gross, James. You’re really fucking gross.”

“So? I got the X-acto knife. Isn’t that what we were looking for?”

“Yes,” Harry sighed, “and thank you for finding it, but that doesn’t negate the fact that that was really, _ really _ fucking disgusting. God. Yuck.”

James was all eye-rolls. Back in the main station, he passed the knife to Harry. The survivor made a face when he took it, and was all too happy to put it aside when the package was finally opened. While he brushed off his hands on his slacks, shuddering in lingering revulsion, James took it back and put it in his pocket. It was a useful thing to have around; they’d be dumb to leave it behind, nasty origins or not. 

Harry unloaded book after book bound in black. All of them were floppy and smacked soundly together as he carelessly stacked them on the table. “Fuck this cult stuff,” he muttered. “You know, I was never one for religion in the first place, but if you read up on it, the general baseline is, ‘don’t be a dick to people and help those less fortunate than you’. Then you have these assholes that throw all that out the window and go, ‘we’re gonna fuck shit up so that God’ - which I highly doubt is the same God everyone else talks about - ‘can flip the entire world on its head and bring about Paradise’. Which, by the way,” he added, throwing a glance at James, “is the Otherworld. _ That’s _ what they think ‘paradise’ is.”

James regarded him impassively. There was a lot of hate in Harry for the cult, to say the least. He tilted his head to take a better look at the mountain of books that flawlessly passed as bibles. ‘The Scriptures’ lay imprinted in gold on the cover. Just like the church itself, that was a fine way to hide in plain sight,

At last, the veteran found something worth its salt. Harry picked open a tome bookmarked by a postcard of Toluca Lake. He frowned down at the pages, then turned over the souvenir card. “‘Thank you for your generous contribution’,” he read aloud. “‘We of The Order hope this finds you in good health. We are proud that others wish to indulge in and spread our good word. Many thanks, and may Paradise come swiftly to you.’ Signed, Dahlia Gillespie, High Priestess.” 

The scowl on his face was soaked in vitriol. “Fuck you, Dahlia,” he mumbled, chucking the card over his shoulder. “Piece of shit.” Harry squared his shoulders and turned towards James as he went over the text in the book. “There’re underlined passages in here. Somebody took a pen and marked it up. Great.” He dog eared the section and snapped it shut. “Awesome.” 

James squinted at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s not like I had any big dreams that we weren’t gonna have to go back to the church,” Harry said, stepping behind James to pack the book away. “I just hate that it exists at all.” The pack clicked closed and he rubbed at his head. “Jesus. Sorry about the backpack. We keep forgetting it, or avoiding it. It must be getting really heavy, huh?”

He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Hell. Honestly and seriously, the next time we get a big break, we’ll go through it. I feel bad that you’ve been playing pack mule for so long. I could take it, you know..”

James shot him a definitive look out of the corners of his eyes. “No. You’re too slow.”

Harry huffed and shrugged his shoulder. “Alright, alright. Ouch, though. I know you’re right, but that still stings.”

There was little else the police station had to offer. They decided to leave and continue on. Before they went to church, the rest of Central Silent Hill deserved a proper tour (though with Harry in the lead, many landmarks would go intentionally unseen for now). A couple days would pass before they matched the address to the key found in the hotel storage and took refuge in the Town Center. Once in there, they hoped they would be safe enough to take the true respite they deserved, and Harry could finally keep his promise to take some of the weight off James’s beaten down shoulders.


	25. Pretty Women

The Silent Hill Town Center, in all its former glory, was rather nice. A wide, open lobby decked in cream marble welcomed patrons old and new, flanked by two curved staircases also carved from marble and oak. On the upper level was a quaint little museum dedicated to Silent Hill and various offices for town officials. Housed on the main floor were event rooms, registries, and libraries. Together the men perused the museum and rummaged through open rooms, glimpsing pieces of people’s lives in documents and various commentary. Fortunately, they procured a map of Central Silent Hill from the pamphlet stand in the museum, but other than that, came up empty handed for anything else deemed useful. 

The mood between them was light. After indulging the forces that be and getting a better feel for one another as a person, their past difficulties were thankfully smoothing out. That aside, the two were exhausted. Being in such close proximity for so long was depleting both of them of their respective energies. It wasn’t good practice to split up, but when James suggested that he’d like to take another look at the museum, Harry gratefully agreed. Since the building was so open-air, they felt comfortable separating for a spell; it’d be easy to quickly reconvene if the need arose. 

Harry decided to make good on his promises and took the backpack from James - he’d take over from here. There was no need for him to stick around for it. The civilian looked relieved and stretched out his back before he went to learn more about the town that trapped them. While his cohort took a well-deserved break, Harry sat down on the hard, cold steps and emptied out their collection.

“There’s a lot of crap in here,” he mumbled to himself as he sorted things into neat piles. Pulling out item after item from a cavern that seemed to hold just about everything _ and _ the kitchen sink, he shook his head and sighed. Good god, he felt bad about letting James trudge around with this thing. It’d been heavy when he was first wearing it and it’d only gotten worse. Well, this was the time to lighten the load as much as possible, and he’d strive to do just that.

Notepad, keys, the cult bible, history books from the hotel (that he didn’t get to crack open yet), bandages, cassettes, handgun, more ammo, another half roll of bandages, more books, gauze, even _ more _ ammo (“What are we, dragons hoarding all this ammo? This is obscene. .. I guess it makes sense, though.”) and at the bottom of it all, a folded photo.

Now that wasn’t right. Harry opened it to a grainy picture of a door and an imprinted hand smack dab in its middle. On the back was a sentence in Latin written in chicken scratch. Flipping it over again, he studied the obscure photograph intently. He didn’t recognize the door, nor did he recall ever seeing the picture in the first place. 

He sighed. There was no way it could have gotten in there, at the very bottom of the bag, without them knowing. Harry rubbed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face. He’d have to ask James about it, though he highly doubted he’d have any idea, either. 

Harry put it aside and continued to reorganize. When he was confident he’d made the right choices and weighed the pack in his hands, he set it down knowing that James would be appreciative. 

James. Harry set his cheek in his palm. James Sunderland: an inscrutable, bleak young man chained to a plane of hell on earth. A young _ married _ man. No ring sat on his finger, but the way he’d divulged that bite of information led him to believe that his wife had been long gone before he got here. How or why was not his to know. Of course, that didn’t stop him from speculation. Divorce? Death? He was leaning towards death, but James had seemed oddly stilted about it, as though he were reading from a script. That whole event didn’t sit right with him. Sure, his default persona rated high on stoic with depression right on its heels. But he’d been detached - and while that too was a big player in James’s personality, for a topic so heavy he’d shown a perturbing absence of actual emotion about it. Harry expected _ some _kind of sadness from him and got none. It simply bothered him.

Harry tried to imagine a James that a woman fell in love with. He also tried to construct a woman that James could care for so much that he’d put a ring on it. When Harry got that first good look at him in that dark, dusty bistro, he pinned him as the kind of person for the white picket fence and humdrum, but content life. As they went along, now Harry wasn’t so sure. Moreover, he wasn’t sure about anything that related to James. As it was, he had no basic information: he didn’t know how old he was, when he got here, _ why _ he was here, how long it’d been, or even his favorite color. Harry didn’t know jack shit about James Sunderland except that once, he and his wife had visited Silent Hill on a vacation and stayed in Room 312 at The Lake View Hotel. 

He absently rubbed his thumb under his fourth finger. A gold ring of his own once adorned that very digit. The band was removed ages ago and put safely away in a small cedar box in his sock drawer with its mate. He’d intended to give it to Cheryl for her college graduation or better yet, the eve of her own wedding. A few times he’d thought about giving her Jodi’s instead. Selfishness and memories made it too difficult to think of parting with it.

Tragically, Cheryl was no more. Heather was his baby girl now. For a while, she wasn’t; Harry once grappled with fathering her, this poor child born from turmoil and hate. She was no replacement for the sweet three-year-old he and his young bride had brought home. Cheryl biologically wasn’t theirs, and obviously neither was Heather. But unlike Cheryl, who the Masons had met many times before the judge declared her their own, his second daughter’s adoption was forcibly thrust upon him and he was _ ordered _ to rear and love her. She was only a baby. Just a defenseless baby, swaddled in cruel fate, in the arms of a despairing father that didn’t know if he could call her his own.

Harry closed his eyes behind his hand. He’d never get over the shame of what he’d once planned to do. Nothing had been her fault; she was innocent through and through. Be that as it may, he was terrified of her, through infancy to fifth grade to a high school senior, and whatever her future adulthood would bring. And he’d tried not to fear her. Heather was his daughter, and he grew to love her more than life itself, vowed to do anything she needed, keep her safe, keep her ignorant, and far, far away from where she came from. 

God, he was so willfully naive. 

He sat his chin in his palm again and stared, unfocused, into the lobby. Harry knew that Jodi would have been proud of him for taking her in and giving her a proper, loving home. She wouldn’t understand the thoughts he had, and likely, would have been so disgusted that she’d never look at him the same way again. Her love for Harry would be lost. Divorce would end their lives together. It was a notion that twisted his heart dry. Harry didn’t provide for and love Heather for Jodi and her theoretical judgments. He loved Heather because she was his kid, just as Cheryl had been, and nothing would ever change that. 

He was a good dad; he knew it. Going back to Silent Hill for her wasn’t a duty - it was an act anyone should do for their child, one of devotion and love. And he’d do it a million times over to make sure his baby girl got home safe. 

Even if this kind of company he was forced to keep had the potential to be more dangerous than he ever imagined. 

Harry thought too much about the whole ‘conduit’ business. Silent Hill spoke to James. It used him like a battery pack. He’d seen it happen with his own two eyes back at the strip club. That was the only instance so far, and it kept Harry on edge for the next squeeze whenever he thought about it. James also claimed to have “felt” not only him arrive, but Heather - and someone with her. Even after spending this much time with him and witnessing that impossible watering effect, he could _ not _wrap his mind around even a tiny grain of it. 

Harry couldn’t remember if that’d been explained. With everything going on, and the worrying lapses in his memory a bright new problem, he had a hard time keeping all the facts in order. It scared him, rightfully so. And also rightfully so, that look in James’s eye when the water soaked him from head toe in the hotel crushed Harry like a mountain. He’d never seen him so terrified and, if he could be so bold as to say, vulnerable. 

His eyes softened. 

If these past weeks (could they call them weeks, or even days? has it been a month now?) taught Harry anything about James, it’s that this lost boy had considered himself dead and gone a long, long time ago. It felt wrong. A person shouldn’t go about their lives dead as a doornail inside. Harry worried about him, and James hated that he did, but there was no way to turn it off. Empathy was perhaps his greatest weakness. Once a caretaker, always a caretaker.

Harry frowned ruefully. He’d spent a fair chunk of his own time as a walking corpse. No one deserved to be so hollow for years, acting out their life like a rusted machine. That experience had changed him. Thankfully, he’d started to come out of it in time to be a responsible father; and damn hopeful that Heather had been too young to have any memories of a man that struggled to love her. 

Harry loathed having to go through that, and James has lived and breathed it for god knows how long. All he knew was that it was _ too _ long.

Hm. 

Funny, he thought. These ghouls were a product of one’s subconscious, so James said. Harry’s first Silent Hill adventure contained things that couldn’t’ve been any byproduct of his psyche. He struggled to match anything he saw to something that would be of any significance to him. Meanwhile, the beings that wandered South Vale that were identified as James’s personal demons were, for the lack of better phrasing, fucking concerning. 

Harry didn’t know what to make of the blatant sexual motif of James’s monsters. But to return to his first comparison - Ted Bundy didn’t look or act the type, either. He tried not to think about it too hard. (Not to mention he’d be perpetually sheepish about using such an insensitive example. He hoped it wouldn’t stick.) Though James’s business was laid out there out in the open, it held no meaning to anyone but him and him alone. Harry, nor any other person, had ever been meant to see it. Everything was off limits for discussion. Well, for James, that is.

The veteran had noticed how eager James had been to read his notes. As excited as he was, he didn’t zoom through them. James took his time with it, rereading the same page, going back a few; really digesting it all. For some reason, it perturbed him. Harry felt strikingly bare about it. Oftentimes he wanted to rip it out of his hands and look through it himself and censor anything that he wouldn’t want James to know. Which is ridiculous. He had nothing to hide; so why, then, did he worry?

Oh, James. Harry’d been flip flopping over how much a soul was left in that dead-eyed husk. Standing with him in the hotel, braving the fire and affliction, he’d made an observation that placed high on one side of the pendulum: that James was still human. For all the times Harry tried his patience, tried to get to know him, coax whoever was locked up inside that tormented shell of a man, he swore that he saw a glimpse of the James he wasn’t allowed to meet. 

It did continue to amuse the older man how James’s knee jerk reaction to escaping danger was to manhandle him. He understood that his PTSD-bred shut downs were a liability and an annoyance. It was something James clearly didn’t understand. Truthfully, while Harry had expected to run into some psychological problems coming back to Silent Hill, the ones so far humiliated him. James had a right to be irritated. 

Even though they regularly chapped each other’s asses, at the end of the day, James was there to quite literally grab his hand and run. In fact, he’d taken to that since essentially day one.

It’d given him a laugh back then that he had to prompt James to let go of him. Interestingly, every now and then when it happened, he’d had to remind him again. Since arriving in Central Silent Hill, they’d had one or two instances where it was necessary to haul ass like that. Each of those times, Harry ended up having to ask for him to return his hand. 

James’s methods were appreciated; it made Harry again feel like he cared more than he let on (preferring that than taking the more realistic approach that he had a duty to uphold). Whatever it was, it seemed like dedication to him, and that alone helped this tired old father believe that there was hope for a light still flickering in that dusty old attic of that poor man’s head. 

He wondered if James had any idea that the dedication to protect went both ways. It’d be nice to be able to trust him - or better, that they could trust each other. But no matter how badly he wanted to meet the real James, anything that he’d get to know would have to be at James’s discretion.

It would be nice to know why he couldn't stop thinking about how learning of an unaccounted for wife made him feel like he now knew a deep, dark secret.

He closed his eyes. That thought was put aside to ruminate on later. 

Oh, sleep. As it stood now, Harry didn’t see himself ceasing all his bitching and moaning about not getting to sleep anytime in the near future. In the normal world he probably would have been committed to an ICU for insomnia and possibly be on his deathbed. Hell; Silent Hill was practically a coffin on its own. It made him wonder if that’s what it had done to James - but he couldn’t pretend like he didn’t know the truth.

Poor, wretched James Sunderland. 

Harry opened his eyes and inclined his head when he heard those boots click down the steps. The building’s acoustics were incredible. It must’ve been a musician’s dream. He roved his eyes upward at the baffling young man standing beside him. “So? How was the history lesson?”

James shrugged. “Okay. Depressing.”

“Yeah. Instances of murdering natives and stealing their land only to facetiously apologize centuries later kind of puts a damper on enjoying a nice vacation.”

He gave an encore. “Expected, I guess.”

“Mm. Yep. That’s what America was built on.” Harry lifted the backpack to him. “Try this out. I took out the books I’ve been hoarding and some of the handgun ammo,” he said, nodding at the little pile. “On their own they’re a light load - the bullets, I mean, but I figure every ounce counts. Gotta admit, I’m kinda bummed to leave the books behind, but I doubt I’d ever get around to reading them. Kind of like all the other ones back at home.” He watched James pull it on and shake himself out. “I know we can agree that I’m slower with it on, but c’mon, not by all that much. I’d be happy to take it over for awhile. Been feeling kinda bad about it.”

He received one of those signature dry looks in return. Harry lifted his hands in moderate defense. “Okay. Your call, boss.”

Taking his eyes back to the room, he contemplated nothing for a moment then stood up, wincing. His knees were hating how much activity he was getting. Though the thought was nice, he had to come to terms that any weight loss due to the rigorous exercise in Silent Hill was wishful thinking. There goes that shattered dream. “Alright. You wanna get back to reading? I might go take my own walkabout.”

James answered by taking off the pack and sitting down. Harry sighed softly and, absently swinging his weapon at his side, went to get some more precious alone time. 

As he aimlessly wandered around, Harry’s brain idled on the conundrum of his blond guardian while he tried the same doors they’d already tested, not that he expected them to be open. The halls were short and not much of an interesting circuit, and he wanted to drag his feet - so he thought more about James.

Lately, it seemed like James was thinking about peeking out of his shell; or maybe Harry was just imagining it through hopeful projection. He couldn’t genuinely say that James had gotten more talkative than he was used to. Either way, though he was a poor conversationalist as a whole, one of his favorite things he’d learned about James thus far was that he had delightfully superb comedic timing. In the scheme of things, he’d turned out to be pretty goddamn funny. That man had a pocket knife in his mouth and he knew how to wield it; and if Harry had to be candid with himself, he actually welcomed the jabbing with (mostly) open arms.

Harry loved and appreciated his wit.

Honestly, it all came down to the fact that he preferred to hear his companion’s voice because he got tired of his own. Being such a nervous talker meant that all he did was flap his gums near constantly - or at least, that’s how he perceived it. Even when he was nearby it was easy to get lonely without James’s input. Sometimes just hearing him grunt reminded Harry that he was there at all. 

But then his conscience struck a newspaper against the back of his head. It forced him to send a meek, but useless telepathic apology to James. No, it really wasn’t that he wanted to hear him because Harry was bored of his own voice, or because he was quick to get lonely. If he were put it mildly, it was awfully selfish of him to use that excuse. He just found it such a shame that he didn’t want to talk. There had to be _ someone _ looking for a listening ear up in that dismal attic James called his head. 

Again, he strongly presumed a lot of what he’d thought about James’s nature was all projection; though having said that, he had to come clean about the real, rather straightforward reason he sought out his conversation:

Harry, at some point, had realized that he missed his voice. James had a profound sadness etched in his words, but held a soft, handsome tone withal. It was nice.

And Harry liked to hear it.

He pursed his lips as he meandered towards the other wing. Between the respective sides of the town hall lay a large event room. When they passed through earlier, they’d noted how the tables and chairs were scattered all over, some in piles, and others pushed up to the walls. It had been, as Harry joked with a smile, uneventful in there. Suddenly, a putrid smell wafted into his nose on the approach to the event room. Harry scrunched his face and pulled his sweater collar to cover his nose and mouth. He proceeded cautiously into the enormous room, sweeping his flashlight to and fro.

Then he saw it, and heard it, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Harry immediately noticed that this was something brand new. A non-person stood dimly bathed in the flashlight’s beam near the other end of the conference hall. The monstrosity had its back to him, swaying listlessly on thin, stringy legs of ripped flesh and pockets of exposed bone. It breathed hard, popping breaths into the corner it faced. One lungful was evidently too much effort for it and the body shook with the force of the following cluster of coughs. Something splashed the ground, then the sticky gasping resumed.

The thing stood in a puddle of black, syrupy ichor collected from the veins of ooze that ran down its gangly, naked body. Anything that could possibly be called skin on its foul body looked to have been carelessly scorched; though now, it was too wet to be crisp. There were patches of grey between the char, thin and light enough to see a root system of green beneath. Every time it hacked, the passion of it spurred more of that liquid nastiness seemingly originating from its head to flow over its knobby, protruding spine and suctioned ribcage. Any of the rips in its soggy husk gave shelter to the dribbles that sought it. On limp arms stripped of its skin like the sleeves cut off from a t-shirt, blood glistened amongst the black slime coating the muscle beneath. The entirety of this crude mockery of a human was wet either by black sap, blood, or.. or, Harry didn’t want to know.

Unsurprisingly, the thing was grotesque - an attribute that went without saying around these parts. Maddeningly, this abomination too kept with the theme of fire and water. But above all that, the first thing Harry had truly noticed was that it was tall. From his standpoint across the floor, he tried to gauge the height despite the creature being hunched over. During his calculations the ogre rocked on its bony legs, another round of coughing turning into dry heaving. The sound engaged Harry’s weak gag reflex and he threw his arm over his mouth to both control and hopefully stifle the noise in time. 

The fiend turned its head. Harry caught a look at its profile, then the rest of its foul existence when it twisted its body in his direction. On its revolting head, its features appeared to be melting right off the skull beneath clumps of greasy black hair. Mushy skin drooped from its splotchy brow, weighing down the eye sockets and slouching off the cheekbones. From its open jaw dripped yellowed, diluted pus that bubbled on its rotten teeth whenever it exhaled, making gargled snarls sound like muttering. The horror of it peaked when Harry realized that this thing was supposed to be a woman. Her deflated breasts sagged on her visible rib cage above an enormous belly bulging and sloshing from her midsection, reminding Harry of a water balloon and fit to burst at any moment.

Her attention seemed to be drawn by the flashlight. As she fully faced him, her gurgling became harsher and her dripping brow lowered. Harry immediately clapped his hand over the white glow. He held his breath. The sudden darkness seemed to briefly confuse her, and by the sound of her coarse breathing, she’d lost interest and turned away again. 

Harry, as silently as possible, began to back up, slowly turned heel, and quickly fled. He released the beam to guide his way back, and when his feet hit marble, he stopped short to tread more carefully across the floor. 

James was as he left him, seated on the steps and absorbed in the old notes. He startled when Harry set a heavy hand on his shoulder and frowned up at him and the universal signal to keep quiet. Harry leaned in close to his ear. “There’s something in the event room down here,” he muttered. “It’s new. We should move somewhere else. If we can avoid it and get out of here in the morning without pissing it off, I think that’d be a really, really good idea.”

When he drew back, James’s face had exchanged its vexed expression for grave. He quietly packed up and, upon Harry’s gesturing, led the careful way up the stairs. They edged their way to carpet, where they relaxed and looked for a place to camp out. 

Harry shut the door after James once they found a newly unlocked office. He exhaled gratefully despite the eerie feeling he got from it having once been closed off to them, but now was open. The door shut behind him and he faced the room. Plush. Gaudy. It must’ve been some town big wig’s personal throne room. James leaned back on the desk, regarding him seriously. “What was it?”

“Fucked up,” he replied, joining James by his side. “What else?” Harry ran his hand over his hair. “It.. was a woman? Pretty tall, I think taller than me, and I’m 5’10”.” He glanced at James and gave him a lopsided grin. “Taller than you.” 

James awarded him a dull glare. Harry shrugged. “Hey, you’re not far off. Probably just an inch below me. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“What did she look like, Harry?” James’s impatience asked again. Another sigh left the older man. 

“Like I said, tall, over six feet. Maybe in the realm of 6’3”. Huge. Black, wet, burned up.. man, I don’t get it,” he frowned. “Nearly everything - no, no, _ everything _ we’ve fought is either wet or charred. I can _ not _ figure it out. It’s driving me nuts.”

James scoffed next to him. Harry took a gander at the guarded, unfortunate civilian at his side. A bitter feeling told him that James had an inkling what it was all about. But he’d promised, and so he had to honor it, and what an uphill battle in a blizzard that was. 

“There was some kind of thick black ooze all over her and she was standing in a puddle of it. It was like car grease. Or oil. Whatever.” Harry slumped his shoulders, clasping the pipe in both hands to rest over his thighs, and looked out into the room. “She was hunched over, breathing hard and coughing. Gagging. She kept lurching like she was gonna yack,” he continued, repeatedly rocking forward to demonstrate. “She was mostly facing away from me, so I couldn’t get a full look at her right away, BUT - she _ did _ turn around a little when she noticed the flashlight. She’s got this _ huge _ stomach,” Harry described with the help of pantomime. “Really gross. Looked heavy. Anyway, after that, I covered up the flashlight and got the hell outta dodge.” 

He chewed contemplatively at his lip, scrunching up his face. “She stank, too. I could smell her from a couple yards away. Smelled her before I saw her. She smelled like.. oh, and her entire arms,” he interrupted himself, gesturing from shoulder to hand, “were totally skinned. Raw muscle, looked shiny and fresh, with blood and black glistening all over it.”

James glanced at him. Harry, as always, was quite the active storyteller. “What did she smell like?”

“Oh! Uh.. she smelled like.. tar? or.. chemicals? Like an embalmed corpse left out in the sun, then thrown in a lake. I dunno, James,” he shrugged, leaning back on the desk on one hand. “You’d have to smell it for yourself. It was a whole bunch of things wrapped together like a rancid burrito.”

He was shot a disgusted frown. Harry shrugged sarcastically back. “What?”

The shake of his blond head spoke for itself. Since that conversation came to a clear end, Harry twisted to get a look at the desk. “I wonder whose office this was. It’s tacky as hell. Someone wanted to be a hotshot around these parts and I’m really curious how much of a social hierarchy actually mattered here.” He pushed off to invade someone’s privacy in the drawers. James didn’t make a peep, or even move. Harry was getting used to his mannerisms, sure, but he hadn’t gotten to the point where James’s disconnect was no longer a forefront annoyance. The author was such a social man who hated awkward silences, and this guy was made of them. 

He had begun to pull out files from the bottom drawer when a loud, hacking cough came from directly outside the door. Harry slowly straightened his back; James already had his gun at his shoulder. “Ugh,” the conduit whispered. “You were right. She fucking reeks.”

“Yep,” agreed a low voice. 

Their visitor wheezed sticky breaths on the other side. She drew a bubbling inhale and mumbled incoherently on the likewise exhale. James shook his head and readjusted his stance. “Can’t believe I can smell her through the door.”

“We can recommend a spa to her later.”

She seemed to be hovering around like she knew they were in there. Harry gingerly placed the files down and moved to James. Their stalker growled, then suddenly crashed against the door. The panel shook with each blow: she was trying to get in. Harry rapped the pipe on his calf then held it up ready for attack, scoffing. “How did it even know we were in here?”

James cocked the shotgun. The banging got more insistent, more angry, and the wood soon began to splinter. Spurred by success she drove herself harder, and once the door suffered enough damage for another few beatings to reduce it to pieces, James fired the first shell. 

A thunderous caterwaul resounded through the hall. Being shot naturally pissed her off, and as James was preparing another, she retaliated by projectile vomiting stinking bile at the two of them through the large jagged gap in the panel. Each man dodged to avoid it, but neither were quick enough not to be, at the very least, splattered. James drew a sharp breath over the searing heat sizzling on his sleeve and stupidly tried to brush it off with his bare hand. All he managed to do was burn himself, and while Harry made the better choice of rubbing his shoulder on the corner of the desk, James looked for another way to wipe off.

The creature demolished the door and staggered into the room. James scrambled to his feet, Harry already on his own. He weighed his weapon like a batter ready for the pitch, and as she set focus on James, he dove in to deliver a sickening blow to her shoulder. She spluttered, whipping around and spraying at Harry. Harry ducked and flung his arms up, retreating around the desk to James, hissing and swearing in pain. The yellow acid bled through the thick leather and past the sweater and scalded him. Though they were beginning to think they may be out of their league the time, they nevertheless had to get out.

Harry urgently shook James’s sleeve. “Shoot her again, I’m gonna go in and throw her back. Keep doing it until you can get to the door.”

James nodded, but this would be a difficult dance. Harry was a big, solid man, and James briefly struggled to find the best opening. The father put himself right in the mouth of danger to beat the demon back, and one lucky swing sent her against the wall. Two calculated rounds went off, and upon James’s demand to leave, Harry followed hot on his heels.

Escape took them down to the main floor to yank at lobby doors that wouldn’t yield. Harry struck his fist on the panel and leaned his back against it. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, thrusting his hand over his hair. “God dammit, should’ve fucking known— shit! James,” he hurriedly addressed the conduit reloading his gun with a grim frown. The beast’s muddy howls echoed through the building. He took his eyes to the landing above. “Where’s the key? What did we do with it?” 

James stared up at him. “I don’t fucking know! You had it! What’d you do with it?”

Harry frantically checked all his pockets. “Shit, _ shit! _ I don’t have the fucking keyring!” She roared again; he looked up to find her at the top of the stairs.

The movement beside him caught his attention and he looked to the young survivor crouching and hastily digging through the backpack. “What’re you doing?”

“Need more rounds,” James grumbled. Harry sighed hard, and glanced up to see the monstrous brute already halfway down the stairs.

“Find them fast, James, because she’s comin’ our way. Look for the keyring too; god _ dammit _ why don’t I fucking have it?!”

A frustrated grunt brought his attention back to James. “I’m fucking _ trying _ , _ Harry! _ Let me get these shells first! Why the hell did you store them at the bottom?!”

“Seriously? They were right there!”

“God dammit, Harry,” James muttered, finally shoving a handful of shells into his pocket. Harry sneered, but their stalker had gotten to the bottom. 

With James desperately working with the backpack to find the keys, Harry couldn’t stall any longer. He aggressively crossed the floor and greeted the monster, hollering, “Batter UP!” and followed through with his powerful swing. The collision bent her back and forced a mucky spray out of her disgusting throat. Harry teetered backwards to protect himself and then ducked to the side when James bellowed, “MOVE!”, clapping his hands over his ears against the deafening blast of his shotgun. 

Her screech hurt his ears more than the firearm. Harry braved the incredible acoustics to do his part. Like clockwork they fell into their flanking method, though with this monstrosity, her ejaculation put holes in their tried and true strategy. Gunk splashed dangerous puddles on the nice cream marble and distanced her attackers from both her and each other more and more. 

She stood in one spot at the foot of the stairs the whole time. It made her a prime sitting duck. James did all he could to fill her with buckshot, but at no one point did she appear to be taking any crippling damage. Confused and distracted by it while reloading, she very nearly killed him. A shout from his ward called his attention to her sweeping blasts and James swiftly leapt back into the corner to avoid too close a call.

That’s when he realized Harry had been separated far from him on the other side of the room. She had effectively, In what now appeared to be a clearly intentional move, not only hindered Harry from getting up close and personal with either her or James, but had forced the latter into an isolated corner nearest to her.

With Harry unable to make any approach from his end and James stuck in a barely manageable space surrounded by her spew, she became the ultimate warden of their death. Harry screamed at James to take her down - but the civilian was digging for more shells, and every second wasted on that was one tick closer to failure. They were running out of time, and more catastrophically, it seemed like James had underestimated his needs: he was running out. 

There was a dry, hacking pause in her assault during the race to reload, but just before he could shove the last shell into the gun she coughed some meager spittle at James’s hands. He sucked a sharp breath and in jerking his hands away, dropped the shell and watched it bounce into the acid. She gasped, hoarse and labored, not yet making her final effort to turn James into nothing but melted flesh and bone. Oddly, she seemed to be waiting for something.

Harry panicked. He darted his eyes over the floor, looking for any possible way he could get across to her. In a bid to get a better view he stepped up onto the staircase. Then he looked down; then up at the second floor. Actually, there _ was _ a way to get to her. Without a second thought or glance, he bolted up the flight two steps at a time and ran for the opposite side. 

In all the mayhem she forgot to monitor Harry. Her arrogance would be her undoing. He nearly slipped down the stairs in his rush to get as close as possible and his yelp whipped her around. Harry both scrambled for his balance and tried to assess his few options. She loomed before him, and though threatening him with her spittle and gargle, still hadn’t bothered to use her best weapon. The fourth round went off behind her and the impact jostled her frame, yet failed to faze her. Her milky eyes tracked Harry when he ascended a step and a half and raised his pipe like a spear. 

Harry was not a religious man by any means but he prayed to whatever god was listening that his aim was true, and that James had reloaded. He launched the steel rod at her engorged, wobbly stomach and cursed under his breath when it hadn’t penetrated like he’d meant it to. Harry slammed his hand down on the railing, preparing to run, but then he realized he may have done some damage after all. 

The shrill howl filled the building like the feedback from a microphone through concert speakers. Harry crumpled to the steps this time, hanging on to the rail with one hand and trying to protect his ears in his shoulder and free hand; this noise too much to bear. Two rounds were almost loud enough to be heard over her, and though her torrential scream hiccuped, the next two blasts transformed that noise into pathetic, dying rasps. 

Harry lifted his head and looked on to see the deadliest thing they’d encountered so far quake on her stringy legs. She clutched her bulbous midsection and through her spidery fingers flowed the fetid, watery, and yellowed pus. The enormous swell contracted once - then twice, harder, bowing the stomach impossibly inward. It seemed like it was trying to push something _ up _. A vile mixture of black ichor and mucous overflowed from her mouth from the intensity of the compressions, making her gag - and by proxy, Harry too - and then her jaw broke open like a fish. One violent punch from her insides folded her over to vomit a waterfall of sickness and a large solid, dark mass onto the floor. 

Then she collapsed in a heap, and died for good. 

In the silence of the building and over the ringing their ears, they could only hear themselves breathe. They stared at the body in the sea of its own bile and the unidentifiable thing she left. 

Slowly, Harry stood. He looked at James propping himself back against the wall. James turned his head and stared back up at him. 

“So!” Harry chirped, bright and mocking. “That was fun, huh? I think we did pretty well. I’d high five you but uh..” He gestured at the blackened floor. “Yeah.” 

James’s hot glare shifted away after Harry substituted with an air high five. The veteran shook his head and let out another great whoosh. “Okay. So. Next problem: what the fuck do we do about all this.”

“I don’t know.” James tentatively edged his boot on the quickly coagulating mess. The touch hissed and steamed and he hastily wiped his foot off on his little island. “Shit.”

“Fuck. Uhh.. well,” Harry hummed, taking a look back at the second floor. “I’m gonna go see if I can find something to mop that up with, somehow. I’ll be back.” Then he groaned softly, twisting his arms and looking down at them. “Fucking ow. This was a kind of nice jacket.” As he trudged upstairs, he called back over his shoulder, “That pipe better be okay, because if it’s not, I’m gonna be pissed!”

The hunt lasted longer than desired. He scoured every room and open closet and came up with as many protective sheets, broken down cardboard boxes, and loose posters as he could, and even found a janitor’s mop. By the time he returned the goop had begun to set, though he knew it would still be wet underneath. A lot of cursing went along with the trial and error of making a quick bridge for them to get to the doors, where thankfully, the largest patch of marble was untouched by viscous poison. 

Harry was determined to get his pipe back, however. “That thing is a family heirloom,” he grunted, trying to catch it by the now soaked, sizzling mop. “It’s not getting left behind, and no - I’m not gonna look for another one.”

“How do you expect to clean it if you get it back?”

“One thing at a time, James.” This was a feat in itself. The beloved weapon was partially guarded underneath the dead’s limp arm, and being mostly encased in the sticky muck made getting it more difficult as it dried. While he worked at it, he glanced at the sizable clump she had barfed out. “Hey, can you tell what that is?”

Harry frowned and halted his efforts to watch James maneuver some of the cardboard closer and make a new path to their kill. The goop had set enough by then to make the burn less of a problem. He held the mop to the side, bearing an unamused glare as James passed him to edge in for a better look. Not only could he now get in right above the mystery clump, but he was directly beside the defeated ogre and, of course, his weapon. It felt like a cliche gag from a movie. “How long were you gonna wait to do that?”

He scoffed at the simple shrug from James. The space was tight and they had to be extra careful not to bump into each other or lose balance. While Harry tried to wedge in to better drag his bludgeon to the door, he addressed the quiet fellow tasked with investigating the mass. “So, what is it?”

The steel slid across the marble, free at last. Harry sighed in relief and plunked the mop in the goo, absently wagging it. He scowled down at the abomination - a smart one, unusually and dangerously smart - and surveyed its gross features until he realized he never got an answer. He looked at the back of the blond head, beginning to get worried. “James?”

“You need to see this,” he quietly replied. James shifted his body to the side, barely allowing enough safe space on this narrow path for him and for Harry to stand facing each other. Harry shuffled forward, using the mop for extra stability, and looked down at a malformed horror that, even for Silent Hill, crossed a huge line.

The silence was tense, morose, and angry - an emotion that came particularly from the father. They mutually stared down at it for a long time, chest to chest, until Harry shook his head and sidled away to the door. James heard him muttering under his breath and messing with the pipe behind him. He was about to pivot when he was suddenly stopped and prompted to turn back around. 

Harry dug through the front pockets of the pack. Loud jingling meant he found the keyring and the pockets were zipped up with a little more force than necessary. “C’mon,” grunted, and James finally broke away when one of the heavy doors was unlocked and opened, cool air flooding in. Harry kicked the pipe down the steps and held the door for James to pass through. He then forcefully yanked the entry to the Silent Hill Town Center shut, making the building a mausoleum to a wicked, spindly mother and the unorthodox miscarriage of her once-developing, blighted infant by her side.


	26. Nope, I Don't Get It

There was a lot of silence that followed their departure. After cleaning the dried muck off his pipe using some newspapers found in a nearby trash can, Harry found his weapon miraculously unharmed. He led James to the curb, taking the backpack from his shoulders. They sat down. 

They were hurt. Before he tended to himself, the sullen veteran assessed James’s hand and the burns on his jacket. The latter put up a little bit of a fight to surrender himself to his care, but soon acquiesced. James watched him bandage his blistering hand; it hadn’t even hurt until they were sitting there looking at it. Harry was clearly distraught and angry, yet none of it bled through to his touch. He was as gentle as ever as he wrapped it up right. James flexed his fingers when he was done. It was impressive how he knew what to do. 

But when Harry reached for his arm, the resident sharply leaned away. They stared at each other; one questioning and annoyed, the other mistrustful and defensive. The stillness then broke. 

“James.” 

The conduit eyeballed the survivor. Harry sounded miserable. That didn’t lower his guard or his wariness, even though it did make him feel bad. He didn’t move, and neither did Harry. 

“Please.”

God, that man’s sympathetic plea was more on par with a beg. This time some of his caution eased, but not enough to make him agreeable. “No.”

Harry’s already pitiable face fell. There was not enough stamina in him to fight about it. He pulled off his leather jacket and folded it to the side, beginning to check and tend to himself. There was little he felt he could do about his arms or clothes. Inspection showed that his slacks were mostly fine, his boots still sturdy, and the only real damage coming from his jacket and sweater. Harry decided to leave the burns on his arms alone; he didn’t think they warranted the waste of a critical item. 

For a while they remained seated, engulfed in silence. They processed, or tried to, the fresh horrors they’d left in the town center just behind them. After a bit Harry dug out the notepad and pen and for the first time since he initially laid the ballpoint to this paper, wrote a new reminder to himself. James had a small scowl to say about it. That was a relic he’d just defaced. It wasn’t his in the first place but he’d come to view it as something of his own. It was worse than seeing someone dog-ear a loaned book. He kept his opinions to himself. 

Harry returned the notepad to its safety and zipped the backpack. Another lengthy moment was spent staring out into the street. When he felt it there was no reason to waste more time trying to digest the events, Harry hoisted himself up and brushed off his thighs. “We should check out Alchemilla,” his monotone said as he slipped on his jacket. “We need to find some ointment or something to clean wounds and help healing.”

James rose to his feet. “Good idea.”

“Thanks. I wish I could say I thought of it myself, but I stole it from something I read a while ago.”

“Mm. Takes a big person to admit to that.”

“Well, as a writer, I have particular standards and respect for other writers,” Harry explained, pushing his fist into his pocket. “Gotta give credit where credit is due. Copyright infringement comes in many forms, after all.”

When he drifted away, absently jostling the keys in his pocket, James gave his back a tiny smile. No matter what happened, no matter how he felt, Harry Mason went on. 

James could admire that. 

Harry called it coping. In a way, it was. In another way, it wasn’t - and that’s when it was called avoidance. And that’s what Harry was specifically doing: avoiding. 

If he’d known that he’d be admired for his keep calm and carry on attitude, he would’ve been simultaneously chuffed to bits humbled while feeling like a sham. For all the high praise he gave therapy and mental wellness, Harry was often a pot calling the kettle black. 

The tension was different between them this time, the nightmarish ending of their stay in the town center keeping them quiet and ruminative. There was a lot to think about and discuss later. Until then, the Old and Central Silent Hill veteran guided the way to Alchemilla. He checked the map once for clarity. The route would be easy, and as they strolled down the lonely roads, the clink of the keys that Harry toyed with kept them company.

James held the gun in his left hand. On his right, the blisters and bandage chafed. His palm was upset at rest and even trying to make a loose fist really pushed his luck. Shooting at enemies was definitely not going to be a happy party. He cocked his head and eyed Harry and his singed jacket. 

The father didn’t appear to be in pain. Well, not any physical pain. The look he wore on his face aged him perhaps another five years, and that was just from what he saw of his profile. James studied him another moment. He didn’t have any doubt that Harry wasn’t a very good liar, and he had the evidence to prove it. Harry was too emotional. Lowering his eyes to the asphalt, the civilian decided he didn’t want to watch his ward for a while, if he could help it. James hated how he could be so visibly sensitive, and hated to see the way he mourned for that dead, unholy fetus. 

For once, he wished he’d start talking.

But nothing was said until they approached the medical center. “There she is,” Harry announced, coming to a stop on the sidewalk. “Good ol’ Alchemilla Hospital.” He pursed his lips and shook his head to himself. “Have you gotten that far yet?” he asked James, leaning back his head to look at him sidelong. “Where are you in the reading, anyway?”

“At the church, actually,” he said. “You were describing Dahlia.”

“Ooh, neat. Looks like we’re gonna be right on target with timelines.”

“Mm. Except we haven’t gone to Midwich yet.”

The patriarch blew a raspberry. “We’ll get there,” he assured him, ascending the steps to the doors. “All in good time and torment.”

With a sizable amount of trepidation, Harry tried the knob. It didn’t budge. Visiting hours were done for the day; rather early for it, but hospitals can do as they please. There were more foreboding feelings than relief about it being closed than the veteran cared for. A soft frown marked his face, then he tracked backwards to the sidewalk, put his hand into his pocket and looked up at the sign. “Welp. There goes that idea.” He swung his look to James. “Guess we’re S.O.L. for that.”

James shrugged. 

Consulting the map again, Harry suggested they head back to the other side of town. “We might as well go face the music at Balkan,” he grumbled. “Goody.”

As he started off, he heard something unique behind him. Harry stopped to stare, then slowly grin back at James, who had actually _ giggled _. Well, wasn’t that a way to put a better mood in him. “What’s so funny?”

James tipped his head to his shoulder. “Nothing. It’s just that you said ‘goody.’”

“What’s wrong with ‘goody’?”

“Nothing,” he repeated, stepping to his side. “It’s just old fashioned.”

“Old fashioned.” Harry chuckled and picked up their walk again. “Hey, it’s a good word, but yeah, I guess it is pretty old fashioned. I don’t know how much people actually use it these days.”

“It’s funny to hear it again.”

“Well, old sport,” he said through his grin. “I’m glad I can amuse you.”

The lapse in their conversation expired when James piped up again. “You read _ The Great Gatsby _, didn’t you?”

“Required reading in high school,” came the lighthearted reply. “Not really the best way to introduce F. Scott Fitzgerald, in my opinion. A lot of required reading really spoils the fun of picking up a book and enjoying reading in general.”

James hummed. “I read _ Tom Sawye _r.”

Harry peered at him. “By your own free will, or by the firm hand of the institution?”

He hoped to get at least a chuckle out of him, and was met with the common disappointment. “No. It was in the curriculum.”

“Did you like it, or?”

“It was alright. I think. I don’t remember much of it.”

“It’s a classic - a fairly important one. It doesn’t really resonate with—“

“Aren’t all the classics you’re supposed to read in school fairly important?” James interrupted, then sharing a glance with his companion. 

“They’re supposed to be. I’m not so sure that introducing Dickens and Twain and Fitzgerald and Shakespeare through forced learning is a good idea; going over the authors and explaining the history and significance of them and their work, yes. I’d think it’s better to do that and go over passages from their most famous pieces to discuss and enlighten first, then suggest that one of those books be read. Maybe for extra credit, or something,” Harry mused. “It’d encourage reading, rather than force it upon a bunch of kids that probably aren’t going to care, or appreciate it for what it is.”

There was another exchange of looks between them. After a moment, James replied, “You seem to have given this a lot of thought.”

Harry snorted. “I guess. Maybe _ too _ much thought, but I’m just..” He shrugged. “I dunno. I worry that the younger generations are going to forget about them somehow. Some schools are pulling books like _ Huck Finn _ and _ Tom Sawyer _ from their curriculums and even some school libraries. It’s because of the rampant racism and touchy subjects, of course,” he explained. “And I get it. But on the other hand, those books still shouldn’t be censored or pulled. It’s not conducive to learning. They’re a product of their time and it’s important to acknowledge them for what they are. They’re like a history lesson, now. It’s not a _ great _ piece of history, but that’s also the point - that’s why we read them. Censorship is becoming a huge problem in schools and I, for one, don’t like it. It’s stifling.”

James was the model, attentive student during Harry’s little impromptu lecture. He placed his wounded hand into his pocket and grimaced at the blisters complaining in his light fist. The talkative author kept going.

“It’s a gateway to understanding,” Harry continued. “You know they’re even trying to ban _ Fahrenheit 451 _ ? You know how _ ridiculous _ that is? Ray Bradbury is, in my opinion - not to say all of this wasn’t my opinion to begin with, and I’ll be the first to admit that in some cases I am _ very _ opinionated - that Ray Bradbury is one of the few authors that absolutely should be required reading, if we’re gonna choose anything. When he wrote _ Fahrenheit 451 _..”

James turned his head away to look into the fog, a ghost of a smile on his face. Harry went on and on next to him, though the conduit wasn’t paying too much attention anymore; just enough to make affirming or questioning noises to keep him going. That was much better.

A little manipulation here and there was okay.

The trek back to Old Silent Hill didn’t seem to take too much time with Harry talking up a storm. They met some of the members of their fan club along the way, and unfortunately, didn’t feel much like stopping to take a photo op - but were glad to leave a personalized autograph instead. 

After crossing the bridge into familiar territory, the two strolled down Bachman. Harry had now fallen mute. Passing the 5to9 Cafe was done at a wide berth to avoid the sigil, and had Harry throwing a sad look into the shattered window. James served it a glance. He now saw the cafe in a different light since he’d been reading through the lengthy narrative. Its importance to the middle aged Mason made more sense. Seeing it again made him wonder about Cybil Bennett. 

He was curious what she looked like. 

When they came to a stop in the middle of the street outside of Balkan Church, Harry made a petulant, whiny noise. “I _ really _ don’t wanna go back in there,” he complained, stretching out his back with the addition of a fatherly groan. “God, I hate this place. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

James had another acknowledging sound for him. Harry slung the pipe across his shoulders, hanging his hands over it like a scarecrow on its perch. He squinted up at the old structure, chewing on his cheek. “You said you were on Dahlia’s description, right?” His nose scrunched at the wordless confirmation. “Any questions before we go in there?” 

A beat or two passed while he thought. “She’s dead, right?”

“Hey, spoilers.” Harry shot him a cheeky smirk. “Yeah. Or she’s supposed to be. Considering this is Silent Hill, I have doubts about who or what actually stays dead.”

James tilted his head side to side, and added the barest of shrugs. “I guess that’s a fair concern.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to be validated.”

They judged the cultist safe house for a little bit longer, then Harry dismounted the bludgeon from his shoulders and pointed it at the ornate double doors. “Tally ho, Sunderland.”

The echo in the church when they entered sounded unwelcoming. Nothing had changed since last Harry saw it; many things appeared to stay constant here in Silent Hill, even including the enormous crucified Jesus mounted on the wall. They went down the aisle to the podium - or as Harry had called it in his notes, the altar. “Here’s where she said, ‘I knew you would come here. It was foretold by _ gyromancy _,’” he mocked as accurately, and disrespectfully as possible. “Then gave me the Flauros. Do you have any idea how full my pockets were?” he asked James, turning to him. “It was a bitch running from everything trying to kill me, and then I had a whole bunch of crap that I had to keep from falling out all the time. I felt like I was in a _Looney Tunes_ cartoon. You might as well play _Yackity Sax_ during every chase scene.”

Pursing his lips, James looked down at his own jacket. Having a military coat and deep utility pockets really had and did work in his favor. “Mm. I can only partially relate.”

Harry glanced at them too. “Spoiled brat.” His eyes returned to the altar. “Okay. Let’s get that bible out. Those passages probably have a lot to do with what we need in here.” Taking the book from James, he picked it open to the dog-eared page and plopped on the rock surface. 

“_‘God has two hands that She used to mold the world. With Her two hands she created man and woman; father and mother; husband and wife; brother and sister; son and daughter,’_” Harry read aloud. “_‘Her hands not only hold, but are made of Truth and Paradise. With Her two hands she will cradle the believers over the sinners and welcome her children to True Paradise in the form of which we were born. God, Her Presence Almighty And Sacred, Mother Of Us All, will Awaken by our own reverent hunt for Life and Mercy, as there is nothing but Betrayal and Hell without Her loving hands to carry us to the day of the Miraculous Descent.’_”

He crinkled his nose. “That’s a lot to take in. ‘Life and Mercy’ and ‘Betrayal and Hell’ are both underlined twice. Jesus Christ. No offense,” Harry added, casting a look up at the fixture of the Savior himself. “You understand, right?” He looked at James, then back down at the scripture. “Any thoughts on this, bud?”

James turned it over several times in his head, but each time made no more sense than the last. “Got me.”

Harry thoughtfully twitched his frown from cheek to cheek and went back a page. He skimmed the text, then its partner’s beside it, then thumbed it over. “Mmm. Going back a little puts only _ some _ sense into it.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it talked about Paradise and God awakening, and looking over this talks about the door to— Oh, shit! That reminds me,” he suddenly said, grabbing the backpack and dragging it to himself. “While I was cleaning this out I found a picture I’d never seen before.” Procuring the photo from the within, he unfolded and offered it to James. “It was on the bottom, under everything. Which makes no sense, right?” Harry studied the conduit carefully as he looked at it. “There’s no way it got in there without us knowing. We’ve had that thing with us the whole time. Yeah, I hadn’t seen what the inside of the bag looked like lately, but I really feel like it would’ve pinged suspicion on the radar if things seemed out of place.” His eyes briefly went to the side. “If that makes sense.”

James flipped it over. “There’s Latin on here.”

“Yeah. You happen to speak it?”

“As well as I know Chinese.”

“Great, so what’s it say?”

He ignored Harry to scrutinize the picture again. “I don’t know what this is.” Passing it back to Harry, he placed his hand in his pocket and continued to peer at it alongside his ward. “It’s Old Silent Hill, Harry. If it’s not South Vale, I don’t know it.”

A tired sigh preceded his words. “Yeah, I know, but.. a little part of me was hoping.” He closed it in his fingers, wagging it contemplatively, then referred to the envoy. “Hey. Has Silent Hill been talking to you lately?”

James’s head barely shook. “Nope. It’s been quiet.”

“Well, that’s good. Or bad. Hard to tell, huh?”

The expected shrug disappointed Harry, as it normally did. He put the photo away. “We’ll look for it since we’re here. And let me just jinx it now and get it over with, but I really hope we don’t run into any new trouble while we’re fucking around in here. That monster back there was.. eugh.” He set folded arms down upon the altar and leaned into them, absently rocking his weight. “Speaking of which, it’s been bugging me. Did she seem intelligent to you?”

Harry slanted his head back to look at him, waiting for his response, though his fidgeting didn’t stop. James’s shotgun idly seesawed in his hand. “Yeah. She did. She was using actual strategy.”

“She sure put up a fight. I’d also like to know how she knew we were upstairs. She got up there pretty fast, _ and _ sniffed us out. I seriously have no idea how. She couldn’t’ve seen me,” he remarked. “She only reacted to the light because as soon as I snuffed it, she lost interest. If she’d seen me, I think we would’ve been in trouble a lot sooner.”

James shook his head. “I dunno what to say, Harry, other than I didn’t like it.” He glanced at him. “She also didn’t seem to care about getting shot. I mean, it pissed her off, but it didn’t look like she was taking any real damage.”

“Hm.. yeah. You’re right. Were you shooting her in the stomach?”

“Stomach, chest, head,” he rattled off. “It was like.. I don’t know. I filled her with buckshot and it didn’t do anything. So what did _ you _ do to kill her?”

Harry made a helpless noise. “Honestly? Don’t know. I just thought I’d Indiana Jones it and throw the pipe at her. I was _ hoping _ to spear her through or something, so I aimed at the stomach, and all I’d managed to do was graze her. Or so I thought. After that she just..” 

The pantomime of the huge stomach bursting was accompanied by a comedic explosion sound. James observed blandly, then looked up at Harry. “I’m sure we’ll see another one.”

Harry quietly scoffed. “I know.” He closed the bible and flopped it to and fro. “I was considering carrying this with us but eh, we’re gonna probably need all our hands free.” After putting it away, the veteran stretched out and faced the empty congregation. “Well, folks, services are over and thank you for coming. If you’d like to stick around and join us for—“

Fuzzy static from the radio made both of them jump and ready their weapons, hastily searching for the threat. Nothing was immediately present, so Harry carefully approached the side entry into the back of the church and cautiously eased the door open. The flashlight found emptiness in the dank corridor. Harry propped the door open and took a step in to get any better view, then the radio cut itself off. He took one more quick look around, then let the door gently close until it was only ajar by the will of his fingers still pressed on the panel. 

“False alarm. Again.” He fixed James with an irritated grimace. “Did it even go off back in the town center?”

James was holding and inspecting the broken device with a scowl of his own. “Don’t think so.”

“Man. That thing’s getting progressively worse. How many times has it done that? Five, ten? Feels like more than that, though.”

It dropped into James’s pocket. “Dunno.”

A long sigh left Harry’s arched nose. “Well, whatever. Can’t waste time on it now. C’mon, let’s go see what sorta festivities are waiting for us back here.”

“Goody.”

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself.”


	27. Yeah, Me Neither

“You know, it’s funny,” Harry mentioned while they poked around in a room. “I said I’d never been back here before, right?”

“Mm.”

“And yet, I think I remember the cult church _ actually _ being somewhere else.”

James lifted his head and lowered the file to look at him. “Are you saying we’re in the wrong place?”

Harry snorted. “Obviously not,” he said, holding up a ritual dagger that looked none too Catholic. “We’re in the right place, but not the _ same _ place I saw. So there are different places to ‘worship’,” he continued, punctuating the word with the aid of sarcasm and exaggerated quotation fingers. “Which makes sense. I just can’t remember where the other one was.”

James scanned the contents of the folder he held, then dropped it on the desk. “I’m sure I’ll get to it.”

“Yeah, probably.” He pivoted to the candelabra standing vigil by the door and its five dripping candles alight. “And y’know, I appreciate the aesthetics of a mysteriously-lit bunch of candles here and there,” he said, putting his hand into his pocket when James returned to his side. “It’s spooky, sure, but you know what kind of ruins it? The fire hazard. It’s such a fire hazard. I think that’s scarier than the thought of someone running around lighting candles for us.”

“I guess.”

“You guess a lot,” Harry smirked, leading the way out to the hall. “You ever get anywhere with those?”

“I guess not.”

“Oh, oooh, I think you’re lying to my face. I know you’ve got some stuff cookin’ up in that noggin. Will I ever know you at all, James Sunderland?”

His green eyes tracked his charge. “Not if I can help it.”

Harry tutted. “You’ve made that pretty clear in the past, but I’m holding out for a little something. Maybe for.. for a hero!” He burst into song, spinning around and wiggling some dance moves at someone who wished that he wouldn’t. “I’m holdin’ out for a hero at the end of the ni-ight! He’s gotta be strong,” he flexed, “and he’s gotta be fast!” his arm swept, “and he’s gotta be fresh from the fi-ight! I need a her-ooooh-ooh..”

There were no words in the English language that could accurately describe the way that James felt about Harry dancing with himself and half-singing a huffy rendition of a song he’d probably heard all of twice in his life before Silent Hill, other than ‘done.’ He waited for this middle-aged embarrassment to finish his musical dance break with a look so flat and salty that he’d ought to rename himself ‘Bonneville.’ To his annoyed relief, the silliness stopped shortly after it began.

Harry gifted him a big grin and held out his arms for an applause he’d never get. “Aw, c’mon! _ Footloose_? It’s the most famous song from it! You know, Kevin Bacon, little nowhere town, 1984..?” When he got a whole lot of nothing in response, it was his turn to roll his eyes and exaggerate his complaining scoff. “Ugh!” His arms dropped soundly to his sides, giving James his back to continue their search. “Someone failed you, James. How’d you grow up so uncultured? It’s _ Kevin Bacon, _ man! It was the highlight of his career back then! _ Footloose _ is a _ classic!_”

James was anxious to meet Heather and ask her how the hell she put up with this guy as her father. “It’s a musical, right? I didn’t really watch musicals. Not my thing.”

“Oh, don’t be so close minded,” Harry scolded. “_Footloose _ was a musical, yeah, but it was like _ Grease _ \- cool and iconic, and even the guys taking their dates to go see it were enjoying it. Everybody loved _ Grease_. It had John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John; everyone had a thing for one of ‘em. Or both of ‘em. And _ Footloose _ had _ Kevin Bacon!_”

“I really don’t know who he is, Harry.”

That got him to stop and turn halfway to regard James like he’d just told a tasteless joke. “Really? Wow. I was wrong about before, about somebody failing you. No, someone must’ve kept you under a rock in a basement your whole life. Seriously? You don’t know who Kevin Bacon is?”

The sigh came hard and impatient. “_ No, _ I don’t. And my memory’s not great, if you remember.”

“Sometimes. You might have mentioned it. I dunno, mine’s starting to go too, now that I think of it.” A smile met a glare. “When we get out of here,” Harry told him, finally taking the search seriously, “I’m gonna sit you down and make you watch both _ Grease _ ** _and_ ** _ Footloose_. And if you like at least one of them, I won’t make you watch _ Flashdance _ until the week after.”

James slowly trailed him. Harry occasionally talked like that - like he thought the both of them would get out. It made his skin crawl when the veteran predicted a life outside of Silent Hill for him. He knew he was joking, because he had to be. This was just another part of Harry’s overly congenial personality. Honestly he didn’t know whether to feel good or bad about it. The way it prickled his skin always initially disgusted him, though once in a blue moon, it’d actually given him a little rare passing comfort of the thought of taking him up on these pipe dream movie nights. 

He shook it off just in time for Harry to open a door and give a low whistle at whatever he saw within. “O-kay. Talk about a place of interest.”

It was a large study. So large that it housed two tall bookcases that made an opening to a cramped aisle to the left, and even wound around two more bookcases to the wall. As has been a theme thus far with few exceptions, disarray in the form of books, loose papers, and newsprint hogged the floor space and hid the wooden tiles under their feet. Two candelabras provided some of the light in here, and the flashlights made up for their shortcomings. 

But the painting that hung on the wall above the desk was the real eye-catcher. Framed in ornate brass somehow untouched by Silent Hill’s grime was a portrayal of a beautiful woman donned in a flowing red dress. She was elevated before a group of kneeling, desperate worshippers, and cradled a woman’s face in her ivory hands. Her hair was of spun gold and floated elegant and weightless behind her as though she were suspended in water. This woman was beloved and revered, her life and mercy genuine, and whomever painted her had done so with painstaking devotion. 

Harry leaned over the messy hazard on the desk to squint at the small plaque placed at the bottom of the frame. “‘She Gives Promise Of Paradise.’” He looked up at the art and stepped back again. “So, this is God.”

James let a thoughtful moment pass. “She’s pretty.”

“I imagine most religions like to depict their saviors as attractive. Then there are the Catholics who give Jesus a real hard time, as though he didn’t have it rough in the first place.”

He idly bounced the shotgun. “It’s interesting to see God as a woman.”

“Supposedly the God everyone else talks about is neither male or female,” Harry said, tilting his head. “But, yeah. She looks like a nice lady.”

Another handful of time passed while they considered the artwork. Harry eventually drew in a breath and took a gander around the study. “Well, I think we should get to looking around. Maybe with God watching over us we’ll have some more luck than usual.”

James went to the desk while Harry predictably chose to look at the books. The surface was so covered with papers and tomes that the wood was lost underneath. There were a whole slew of interesting documents, prints, and books strewn about. He absently glanced over and slid them around to uncover whatever could be of interest. Whoever owned this workplace needed a crash course in organization, not that James had any right to criticize. Pushing aside a group of notes unveiled an aged letter. There were many of these on the desk, but this one was simple, and for some reason, felt important. He frowned, picking it up to read. “Harry? I found something.”

“Yeah? So did I. Did you know the hotel burned down a while ago?”

James lifted his head and twisted slightly to fix Harry with a dubious frown. “Huh?”

The survivor waved at him a small collection of newspaper clippings of various sizes. “Yep. Burned right down. Says they were gonna rebuild it.” He passed his guardian the articles. “No year on it, but it’s pretty old. Funny, huh?”

Holding the clippings against the letter, James scrutinized the small, damaged print. There was even a picture of the destroyed lodge. “Yeah. Real funny.”

“I knew I got Overlook vibes from the place. The movie was inaccurate in so many ways, but one of the big ones was that the Overlook didn’t blow up at the end. Kinda nice, kinda disappointing, really.”

He shook his head. “Yeah, I.. I don’t know about this. I went to the hotel before, when I first got here,” James said, lifting the first cut out to look at the next. “Some of it was burned up on the top level, like there _ had _ been a fire, but it obviously wasn’t burned to the ground like this.”

Harry reared his head back. “Wait, you were there with your wife, _ and _ when you got stuck in this hellhole?”

James grunted. “Yes. Not gonna talk about it more than that.”

“Fine by me,” he sighed, pocketing his hand and inclining his head to read along with him. “Silent Hill, right? Anyway, the other ones are about those boating accidents. Man, that doesn’t seem real.. losing hundreds of people in a lake? Toluca isn’t even that big, when you compare it against lakes like Lake Superior.”

“Losing people in lakes is like losing crashed airplanes,” he countered. “It’s weird, but it happens.”

“Yeah, like that Egyptian one a couple years back. And Amelia Earhart. I still can’t believe it. But, you’re right,” Harry relented. “I wish I could blame it all on Silent Hill, but some things are just what they are.” Harry looked at the piece of paper James held beneath the clippings and nodded his head at it. “What’s that?”

He brought the page to the front. “‘You need to re-evaluate your choices,’” James read. “‘See me later.’ Signed, V.” 

“V,” Harry mused, looking up in thought. “V.. mmm.. nope.. can’t think of anyone that’d be right now. _ V _,” he whispered to himself, starting to turn. “Who the hell could ‘V’ be?”

James creased the page. “I’ll keep looking.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, distracted. “Me too. There’s a lot to look for here. Here,” he said, offering his hand again. “I’ll hold onto everything so we don’t get all mixed up and lose something.”

“Sounds good.” After passing it off, James went back to work on the desk. He heard Harry rustle around behind him, mutter about the candles, then step behind the bookcases to investigate more. James rifled for something amongst the clutter that might actually help them when he uncovered a thick text. The corner of a loose page stuck out from the middle of the book and he carefully extracted it. 

Curiosity unfolded the paper and his eyes fell upon handwriting that covered every space that wasn’t occupied by drawings he didn’t understand. He’d never seen it before and yet, he recognized it. James fingered the page, roving his eyes over it all, and then a dark, echoing pop went off in his head. 

He ticked his head to the sound of Harry shuffling something about on the other side. Interested murmuring told him that he’d found a new clue. It could be mere seconds until he came back to show him. Panic leapt to his throat and James urgently spun around, instantly laying eyes on a nearby candelabra. He silently folded the page on its skewed crease and held it over a long flame. The paper sizzled on the first bite and the fire instantly ate it up in a whoosh. 

“James?” Harry leaned out from around the corner, looking worriedly at the conduit shifting through the desk work, then at the disturbed, dancing flames. “What was that? I smell burning.”

The resident lifted his head, frowned softly, then eyeballed the candelabra. “Yeah. I do too.”

“What is that? Did something happen with the candles?”

James shrugged. After a short sigh, Harry approached him with a stack of construction paper. “Great. I love phantom smells. Take a look at this, though,” he said, showing his companion the floppy prize. “Children’s drawings, and one more article. It has to do with the Walter Sullivan case,” he continued. “You hear about that?”

He partially turned as Harry came over to share his findings. James accepted the small stack of large drawing paper filled with colorful pictures of a house and people in a row made by a child’s hand, and the article with it. “Not really. I was under a rock in a basement, if you remember.”

“Oh, yeah. I do kinda remember you briefly mentioning that.” Harry idly rubbed his throat as they looked at it together. “I kind of want to take it with us to study it later, but we’ve gotta be careful what we take so we don’t end up hoarding a bunch of shit again.” He scrunched his nose thoughtfully after James’s non-reply. Twisting, he looked back at the study, trying to go over their options and make a decision that would be sound and productive. “Let’s.. maybe.. hang out here for a spell. There’s a lot to look at, and maybe something else is here all tucked away.”

“Whatever you want to do,” James said, giving the drawings back. Harry took them with some reluctance. 

“James?” His gaze lingered on the papers, though he knew the conduit was listening. “You ever wanted to have kids?”

An awkward moment followed. “Uh.. that’s kind of a weird question.”

Harry tipped his head with some sheepish agreement. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, just.. looking at these..” He fingered the paper, partially flipping the corner to look at the one behind it. James observed awkwardly. 

“I don’t really want to talk about that, Harry.”

The wayward, weary father nodded. “No problem. Sorry, I just.. I miss my little girl.” 

Watching him seek solitude in the small maze of books, James felt a tug of pity and shame on his hollow soul. He faced and placed his palms upon the desk, hung his head, then looked up at the tall painting of God swathed in rich reds. She didn’t see him, only the humbled people at her feet, holding a poor woman’s face in her promising hands - a blonde woman, who clasped God’s wrist, and stared in loving awe at Her blessed form.

He wished he were a praying man.

After a while, they decided to keep the pictures and articles and moved on. Along the way they encountered a small indent into the wall where an altar had been set up beneath a dark painting depicting a being in a meditative position in the middle of an arch of incomprehensible scripture. Horns long and black rose from a goat’s head, and wings that flared behind its robed shoulders. A hand was raised while the other lay open upon its human knee. This thing on the canvas was, as Harry dared to say, unholy. 

His expression was grim. “I recognize this,” he told James. “Now that I think about it, I think.. I’m _ pretty _sure this is what I was told God was. Sure goes against what we’ve learned and seen so far, huh?”

“A little.”

“Dunno how I feel about it.” Harry ran his hand over his hair. “To be honest, I actually feel like I blocked a lot of this out, which, for something like this? Not good. Really not good. Kinda feeling like a newbie here, and that doesn’t.. man,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t know what’s going on. I should’ve _ remembered _ this.”

James eyeballed him. “Yeah, I’d expect you to remember something more like this than a small detail like the way that corpse in the alley had its arm hanging off the side of the stretcher.”

A frown appeared on his lips as well as his brow. “Did I?”

“Yeah. That’s how we found the key to the auto shop. You don’t remember that?”

“No, not.. not at all,” Harry grimaced, rubbing hard at his eyes. “Damn. It was a while ago, though, right? It’s been a few days, or more. How do you remember it?”

James shook his head. “I don’t know, Harry. It’s just one of those things that stuck with me, I guess.”

He made a small noise. “I’ll try not to think about that. C’mon, let’s not get stuck in here like idiots again.” Harry peered up at the painting. “Kind of ugly, but it gives off pagan vibes, and I’d hate to insult the pagans like that.”

“Perhaps blasphemy isn’t the greatest idea here,” James reminded him, receiving a flippant scoff. 

“If God has a problem with it, She can come fight me Herself,” he said, turning to leave. 

“Careful. She might take you up on it.”

“If we’re lucky. I have more than a few bones to pick with Her.”

Though the church itself wasn’t large from the outside, the interior, with its lit hallways and shadowed rooms, gave the impression that the inside was even smaller. The layout itself contradicted both; it felt like there was far more space than the building should’ve allowed as a whole. At the back of the church they found the kitchen - a small, pathetic thing - and by the pantry was a cellar door. It was unlocked and patiently awaiting their curiosity. Naturally, they regarded it with distrust. 

After a bit of whining, Harry lifted the door and pointed his light into the dark, the beams of which reflected upon still water. Perplexed, he edged around to the side to open it further, and looked down into the small, black sea. “Oh. I guess someone hasn’t been checking up on the pipes. So much for that, huh?” He hummed and gently shut it. “While that’s kind of unsettling, at least we don’t have to go down there, right? Hope there wasn’t anything important we needed.”

Looking at James, the resident was seemingly ignoring him again, staring down at the heavy wooden door. Harry let him chew on whatever was going on in that strange head of his and surveyed the kitchenette. It was assembled in the corner with a serving window cut into the wall that looked out into a dining room. That wall itself extended a fair bit past the kitchenette, but allowed for easy comings and goings from one room to the other. A few large windows decorated the mess hall that allowed the foggy outside to provide some natural atmosphere, giving the area a spacious and, perhaps in better circumstances, a welcoming feeling.

He scuffed his feet and drummed his weapon on his calf. “Kind of a cozy little place, eh? After you’re done supposedly praying to Jesus, you can come back here and have a luncheon with all your good buddies on a happy Sunday afternoon. It gives such a good sense of community, of togetherness,” Harry facetiously preached. “Sit amongst families and friends, and welcome new ones as you find your favorite supermarket cold cuts and off brand orange—“

The long squeal of a door in desperate need of oiling echoed from the other side. It sounded near their position and didn’t close immediately after, its hinges creaking and the push bar clacking against something having trouble entering. Whatever had come to join them, though, brought along deep, contained crying. They stood stone still as the door noisily caught again and again on the arrival, then closed for good.

In a grossly unsettling way, the weeping sounded genuinely mournful. Following the shuffle of slow steps inching into the room was the gritty scrape of something being dragged along. Gathering up his courage, Harry silently rounded the dividing wall and beheld a scene that stole the color from his face. James soundlessly went to his side, then instantly lowered the shotgun he’d prepared on his shoulder. 

A lean man teetered on exhausted legs. Because his entry only allowed them to view him from the side, from that angle they saw he wore a brown leather jacket discolored by smoke stains and was torn at the shoulder. The jeans on his legs were tainted and ratty, and his shoes only held together by determination.

From what could be told of his profile, this man’s face had retained most of its features, despite the crusty, black skin covering every inch. His dark hair lay flat on his head, save for a wispy few strands that fanned loose over his brow. Misshapen scarring created a thick, blinding patch over his visible eye. And lastly, the reason his nonstop weeping was muffled was due to a mouth sewn shut so many times that it was replaced by nothing but a bulky, knotted mask.

But this visage was nothing compared to his cargo. In his hand he held a smaller one attached to a thin, tiny arm, of which was connected to the raw and burned corpse of a little girl. She was on her belly, her head hung like a sack of sand between her shoulders, obscuring her face, and her stringy, oily black hair dangling and swaying with every move the man made. On her body was a tattered blue dress, perhaps once long-sleeved as suggested by the remains of ripped fabric at her elbow, and black shoes over white socks patched by dried orange blood and char. Wherever she was forced to go, she left a wet streak of black and crimson in her wake.

James scrutinized this gruesome new monster hard while it shuffled directionless and wracked with demoralizing sobs. It didn’t seem to know they were there and moved at such a slow pace that James figured they were in no immediate danger. He looked at Harry for guidance. 

Harry, however, was in no state to do anything but remember how to breathe. His face was contorted in grief and oddly, recognition. James eyed him, somewhat disturbed by it but moreso uncertain, then took his stare back to their visitor.

The victim of a fire unknown changed his direction, somehow having noticed they were there and faced them. Wherever it could be seen, his skin was indeed blackened, cracked, and flaking like bark, and revealed that both of his eyes were blindfolded by the scarring. Beneath the leather jacket, which sported a broken replica of their flashlights, was a sweater vest that bore a royal blue color somehow notable under the charcoaled damage. It was frayed at the hems and layered over a shirt that was once white. But now that he had confronted the resident and veteran full on, James could have never been prepared for what brought it all together:

The bereaved’s left hand which, until now, had been hidden on his other side, was not empty - and never could be. His arm hung lifeless and his fingers welded, forever clutching, a long, rusted, and bloody steel pipe.

James’s lips parted, and his heart dropped like lead straight through the floors.

Neither moved, and the man, at his snail’s pace, sought to meet them. The next garbled cry caused Harry to twist his bludgeon so hard in his white-knuckled fists that his arms briefly trembled. Each step drew the walking corpse a little bit closer, and still, they couldn’t find their feet. With the pieces having fallen together, the implications of what was before them pulled the ropes in James’s stomach tight enough to make him vaguely nauseous. 

James heard himself utter a whisper of his companion’s name. His voice seemed to shake Harry out of his stupor, and in time to choke back sob of his own before it began. 

He didn’t even feel his vocal cords nor his tongue move when he spoke again. “Is that..”

“It’s me,” Harry said thickly. “Yeah. That’s me.”


	28. In Memoriam

Harry’s swallow was audible. “I’ve had some pretty shitty days in my life,” he uttered feebly. “And today is really earning a place in the top five.”

The true Mason inhaled deeply, setting his pipe across his shoulders again and dropping his head back on the steel. He was so worn down that even though he was near tears less than a minute ago, he now couldn’t summon any feeling other than pure weariness. His body felt like stone and his head light as clouds. Staring at the ceiling, the scrape and sorrow filling his ears, the patriarch decided that after this, he was absolutely clocking out for the day and oh, what he would give to be able to kick back and zone out to Netflix. 

James was waiting for him to lead. Harry dismounted the pipe and swung it at his side. Staring dully at the marionette and its broken puppet sidekick, he ran his tongue over his teeth and tap, tap, tapped his bludgeon on his calf. It felt like looking into a mirror of his worst nightmares. In fact, it may have even been a nightmare at some point. This was also a spitting image of what he could have been - what he’d feared in himself. Silent Hill really outdid itself today. 

Harry sucked on his tongue. “I’m kinda insulted,” he told James. “I thought I looked much better back then.”

“What should we do, Harry?”

“Fight or flight. I’m not in the mood for another fight, so I guess that makes the decision pretty easy. Let’s go back the way we came and blow this joint.” 

The two turned to leave. But it seemed that their attempt upset the blind monster, and his gait turned hostile. Like lightning, he lunged to cut them off, swinging the pipe so fast it nearly sang. It caught Harry on the shoulder and surprise sent him staggering to the side, shouting, “SHIT! Ow, you FUCKER!” He spun around in time to defend himself, the song of battle filling the room as steel clashed with steel.

Hatred was on the dead’s marred face as he beat on the living with malice. Harry fended him off and pushed him back, but when he heard James cock the gun he sternly told him, “No, not now. Let’s just _ go! _” He responded with a disgruntled sound, though he was quick after the author back the way they came. 

The race through the church was soon a chase. Behind them, the repressed wailing and sickly haul were faster than they anticipated or liked. Upon reaching the doors into the congregation, Harry fought to open them: they were jammed. “Are you _ serious?! _ Fuck me!” He glared at James. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this place?”

His eyes then looked past the conduit. A light was bouncing towards them. The flashlight on the scourged lookalike had been broken beyond repair, or so it had seemed; yet now it shone in the dark. James glanced back, then at Harry, then laid eyes on a coat closet just a few steps away. He crossed to it, pushed the folding, slatted doors to the side, and stuffed himself in. Harry hastily followed suit and slid them closed, then covered his light under his palm, as did James.

The running halted and the sniveling became questioning. Harry bit his lip and grimaced, resting his head back on the wall. It was like listening to an abandoned dog. Despite how cruelly it tugged on his heartstrings, he tried his damndest not to let it get to him, but god, how this day had made him fragile. He snapped his eyes down to the slats in the closet doors when the light outside turned off. The steps were quiet and the dragging minimal; it sounded like the doppelgänger couldn’t decide where to go. Clutching the flashlight in one hand and the crowbar in the other, Harry put all his effort into holding fast and counting his breaths. He could make it; _ they _ could make it. They just had to hold on a little bit longer. 

Then the radio turned on. 

James scrambled to jerk off the backpack and shove it against his squealing pocket. Though smothered, it felt like it only sheltered the noise by a mere half a fraction. Harry huffed sharply. They were idiots to hide out in this small space, but desperation didn’t care about safety. The sandy dragging grew closer. And closer. Swallowing hard, the living father pressed against the wall and white knuckled his weapon, bouncing it anxiously in his fist. Outside, another step put the being directly at their door. 

The radio shut off. Tense, deafening silence followed. Harry licked his dry lips and waited at the ready. But the forlorn beast made no move to attack. Instead, his restrained sobbing pitched a wail within his mouth and left, the sound of his crying and the sweep of the dead little girl growing distant until it was gone. 

Two relieved sighs came at once. Harry thudded his head back on the wall and glared down at the sack. “Fuck that radio,” he angrily whispered. “I’m getting sick of its shit.”

“No fucking kidding,” James grumbled, reorienting the backpack on his shoulders. 

“We gotta ditch it. It’s been nothing but a pain in the ass.” Shaking his head, Harry folded the door open and, after looking both ways, gestured with a jerk of his head for James to go. 

They made it safely outside, once proven that the jammed doors evidently just needed a harder push. When they stood in the middle of the street, the veteran nudged James’s pocket with the bludgeon. “Hey. Take that thing out.”

He shot him a suspicious glance and removed the little red radio. They studied it together; the item had been of great help in the past when they’d come to Silent Hill. It held both significance and terrible memories. While it had become a liability and source of vexation to them now, there was a mournfulness about it, like losing a good friend. But it was past its prime. Their old, once trusty lifeline had to go. 

“Too bad it started acting up like that,” Harry said. “I wonder why it’s busted.”

James shook his head in lieu of a shrug. “Can’t say. It only started doing that when you got here.”

“Oh, thanks,” he replied, sending him a wry frown. “Appreciate that.”

“Sorry.”

The tourist exhaled tiredly. “It sucks. It was actually working fine for awhile back in South Vale.”

“I dunno, Harry. Maybe we ought to find a screwdriver and take a look at the inside.”

“Nah,” he dismissed, backing up a few paces. “I don’t think it’s worth it. It’s gotta go, James. We had a good run, ol’ buddy, but we gotta put’cha down.” Harry tapped the pipe on his calf and raised it like a baseball player ready for his home run. “You wanna say any last words for it? I think it deserves a good eulogy.”

James eyeballed him and took a step back, himself. “I’m not very good with words. I think that’s more like your specialty.”

“How about the words for Amazing Grace? C’mon. Uhh-uhhh-maaaze-eee-eeng grace,” Harry comically warbled to the flat exasperation on the conduit’s face. “How sweeeeet, the sound..” He snorted. “Okay. Radio, you’ve been a life-saver and the only trustworthy companion for a long time,” he began, addressing the red box in James’s palm. “I remember when I first saw you on the 5to9 Cafe table. You scared the shit outta me right before that gargoyle rolled in. Without your harrowing bleating and ear-damaging nonsense, I wouldn’t’ve made it home in one piece, or no pieces at all. So thanks, old pal, for all the laughs and the terror you both gave and saved me from.”

James slowly nodded. His older ward sniffled dramatically. “Anything you wanna say, James?”

He looked down at it and briefly chewed on his words. “Yeah. Thanks. What you said, except for me.”

Screwing up his face, Harry lowered the weapon a tad and looked at James with disappointment. “That’s it?” The green shoulders shrugged. He shook his head with mild dissatisfaction and wagged the steel bat in the air. “Suit yourself. Alright. Give it a toss when I give you the signal.”

Straightening his back, James both leaned away and extended his arm in anticipation. Harry rolled his neck and kept his eyes on the prize. 

“Farewell and adieu, to you, our once savior,” he started to sing under his breath. “Farewell and adieu, to your screeching and pain! For we see no reason to keep you around here; but we hope in no short time..” A nod to James sent the radio into the air. Harry swung hard, the connection of steel to plastic making a loud _ THWACK! _ and exploding the box into pieces. James grimaced and shielded himself from the mechanical rain. Harry’s arm dropped to his side like a pendulum and he saluted the carnage with the other. “.. to see you again.”

Going around and gently kicking pieces into a pile, Harry continued to jauntily hum the old sea shanty, scraping the asphalt in time with the beat. Watching him a moment, James then looked down and spotted an odd, small piece between his feet. He picked it up and inspected it. It was a rust orange and brown triangular, four sided die, with its engraved numbers nearly worn away. “Hey, Harry,” he called to him. “Take a look at this.”

He offered the die when he approached. Harry softly frowned as he jumbled it in his palm. “Huh. Where’d you find it?”

“It was right here. I guess it came out of the radio.”

“Well, whaddya know. So breaking the thing open was a good idea after all.” Wrinkling his nose, he held it a little closer to his face to scrutinize the details. “There’re numbers on it. Barely. I wonder if this was the culprit to its malfunctioning problems.”

“Probably.”

“Hm. Well, you know the drill. Better take it with us.” Harry tucked it safely away in one of the inner pockets of the backpack and landed a couple heavy pats afterwards. “How’s that, eh? Looks like we’re back to the ol’ cryptic puzzles. I bet we’ll look back on the easy times we’ve had with regret that we ever complained about it in the first place.”

James adjusted the straps and fell into place at Harry’s side as they walked away from the church. “That’s what we get for jinxing it.”

The gruff laugh almost brought a smile to his lips. “Ohhh, James. You’re never gonna let me live it down, huh?”

“Not if it’s the last thing we do here.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Nobody likes a liar.”

_ No_, _ they don’t, _ James replied in his head. _ So that really just goes to show, then, that we don’t like each other very much at all. _

He glanced at Harry. 

_ Too bad. _


	29. So You've Had A Bad Day

Harry didn’t want to talk about it. So he didn’t. 

That day left them both haggard. They found some safety in a townhouse and took to separate levels to spend time apart. But before they did that, Harry had taken the bag off James again with the intent to go over what they had so far. James however did have a clause to relinquishing their collection: he wanted to continue reading. It was honored, though Harry mentioned that he really wanted to go through his old notes for himself, now, in case they’d help him remember something he forgot. The civilian had reluctantly agreed to it and they’d settled on ‘later.’

Harry, again, found it kind of endearing that James had become possessive of his old notes. 

A routine search of the bedroom he chose to camp out in turned up another map in the bedside table. It was far unlike the other two he carried. This map was expanded. The overhead view actually encompassed both sides of town and made it look far more realistic, like an actual place with tons of businesses, housing, offices, and schools. Harry studied the map for a long time, comparing it against the other two minimalistic ones. It was mind boggling; how funny to see Silent Hill like this, so welcoming and unassuming. He truly wanted to know what everyday life in this shitty town had been like and the type of people that made their home here. Regrettably (perhaps; was it regrettable?), he’d never get the chance to find out. 

Harry stood and went to the muddled window to watch the snow. Midwich was their next target. The drawings found in the church didn’t appear to depict the middle school, though it seemed like heading over there was the only logical thing to do. He’d been avoiding that place for as long as he could. After the church hijinks it felt like he was being pushed there now.

Ugh. The church; the town center. What a clusterfuck. 

He shook his head and slowly paced the room. There was so much to process from today that it made his brain no better than clumpy mashed potatoes. What had helped him gain clarity during his first tryst with Silent Hill was writing everything down. (When he got home, he realized it was a valuable method to preserving some of his sanity, and so kept up the practice.) The notepad had a ton of free space. Harry really would have liked to review his story and even start keeping an updated archive. Maybe he’d luck out and find another one. Holding onto a grain of hope, Harry left the bedroom to scour the upstairs for anything that would be a fair substitute in the meantime.

He found a nursery. The aging father could only sigh; at every turn today there was something about a child. Children were his Achilles heel, and the town knew it. It was obviously meant to torment and wear him down, and it was doing a five-star job of it. Taking reluctant steps to the crib, he rested his hands on the white frame and looked down into a bed without a blanket. 

There was a red notepad and a pen in the silver cone holder. 

Because of course there was. 

Trying not to allow his shameful memories to overtake him, he took the pad and then the pen into his left hand. The pages were entirely blank; this was a fresh start. Harry bounced the pen between his fingers, frowning down at it and then the crib. Finding the notepad just when he was wanting one in a place that was too specific to a reviled memory felt invasive. He didn’t like the idea of Silent Hill actively reading his mind. Digging into his subconscious? Fine, whatever. That was business as usual. Sure, it was terrifying enough, as the hard proof showed; but the suggestion that he had a bug implanted in his head for a one-way frequency scared him a whole lot more. 

He returned to the bedroom, and began to write. 

Mason and Sunderland spent their remaining time apart. When the abyss outside shifted to grey, Harry packed up and went downstairs. James was seated in an easy chair in front of a powerless television. He got an odd feeling about it, like deja vu, and studied the back of his head. 

Though peculiar, Harry brushed it off. It wasn’t important. “Hey, champ. Ready to hit the road?”

James stood and turned around. “Yeah. Sure thing, chief.”

He smiled as the pack changed hands. “Atta boy. By the way, I found another notepad. That one is  _ not _ for you to read, alright? A guy’s gotta have his own private journal every now and then.”

Intrigue briefly narrowed James’s eyes. “Okay. You did do something so I can tell the difference, right?”

“Yep. You’ll know it when you see it.”

James put his reading away. The new notepad had been tucked snug into a corner, missing its pen. That was an easy enough way to separate the two. He closed it up, adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, sorted out his jacket, then ran his fingers back through his hair. Harry’s smile turned softer. He liked how his blond hair parted on the right and hung over his left brow. The look was youthful. It wasn’t a topic to breach yet, but he still wanted to know just how young this guy was. 

Maybe soon. 

“I was thinking we’d go back to school,” Harry said. “Midwich is near— oh! Shit, you should look at this.” He dug into his jacket and showed James the updated map, holding it out to him unfolded. “Found this in the bedroom upstairs. How’s that for trippy? It makes Silent Hill actually look like a livable town.”

James frowned over it. “Yeah. Wow. That’s way bigger than I expected.”

“No kidding. With all the roads out last time and, well, this time so far, I never got a chance to see if there was anything else to this place. Kind of weird to have such a small map from the get-go, but ya know. Silent Hill.”

“Silent Hill,” James murmured. “If you found it, we’ll need it.”

“You bet.”

Furrowing his brows, James pulled the map closer to his face to read. “There’s a mall.. and a high school. .. Harry, this layout doesn’t make sense.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, did you look at it?” Harry gave him a half-hearted grimace and shuffled beside him to look on. “You see that? That divider on Bachman isn’t where it says it is,” James pointed out. “And the street looks longer. Did you look this over?”

“Well, yeah,” he replied, fishing out their main guide. He unfolded it, holding it above the other for better comparison. Lo and behold, James was right: there were more discrepancies than he’d originally noticed. Harry’s shoulders sank in frustration. “Oh, come on.. I  _ looked _ at these side by side,” he complained. “There’s no way I could’ve missed that.”

“Except that you did.” James ignored the glare, and they fell into a short silence. “Yeah, that’s.. weird,” he mumbled after a spell. “I wonder how this changes things.”

“Well, James, I’ve got some great news for you,” Harry said, taking both maps back and filing them into his inner pocket. “We’re gonna have to personally find out.”

The conduit shook his head. With his hand on the front door knob, Harry cast a grin over his shoulder at him. “Makes you wish you were still cooped up in South Vale, huh?”

“No.” The knob rattled. Then rattled again. “Yes.”

He sighed hard. “Well, alright. Sure. Why not. We’ll leave through the back.” Harry faced his guardian with a bright, forced smile. “Hey, James! You wanna go through the back yard this time? I think we could do for a little change of pace.”

Nothing could be said with words that couldn’t be said better with his face, so James rolled his eyes upward and followed. 

The backyard took them to the alley. As they wandered down the concrete trail, Harry picked up a new song to hum and absently utter under his breath. James eyeballed him. “You’ve been singing a lot lately.”

He raised his brows and carefully studied his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Harry gently squinted at him. James’s tone already told him where this was going. “I didn’t really notice. Is it obnoxious?”

“Yeah. A little.”

“Want me to put a lid on it?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He shrugged his acceptance. “You got it. I’ll keep it in mind.”

James looked ahead. Though he kept his disappointment hidden, Harry’s heart pulsed dejectedly in his chest. He looked down and away. 

It’d been a really shitty 24 hours. 

They hadn’t gotten far, only a street over when a deep rumble beneath the road rose to the surface. With it came proliferating tremors that violently shook the ground and cracked the asphalt underfoot, compelling them to leap back and try to brace themselves on earth that wanted to throw them off. The growl of the road splitting where they’d just stood had the men watching - one incredulous, the other gobsmacked - as the road tore itself in half like a demonic maw. When the earthquake ended, the two men stood there dumb and done. James meandered over and looked down into the deep crack. 

“Are you fucking..?” Harry slammed his palm into his forehead and pushed it hard back over his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest, then let his arm collapse to his side. Everything was going wrong at every turn and he was barely hanging on by a splinter. As he drew up his head and straightened his spine, Harry accepted the murky disconnect settling over him - a product of his own mind trying to save itself - and stared dully at James’s back. 

The resident looked over his shoulder at him. “Ever seen that before?”

“Nope.”

He squinted over a light frown. Harry’s eyes looked strange. There was an emotional absence in them, and he looked older the way that his lids were settled at half mast and his face blank. It was eerie, and he didn’t like that version of Harry, whatever it was. James chose to overlook it. Taking another gander down into the earth, he idly wondered what they should do next, then turned his head when Harry’s feet scuffed the ground. 

James caught up with him. The energy in Harry had changed since they’d left the town center. Right now Harry was feeding him the negativity he needed, but to feel energized when he ought to feel drained made him worry about what it meant for him. In the last day it’d ebbed and flowed between dismal and exuberant, empowering and weakening James like he was running on a faulty treadmill. Harry obviously had no idea what irreparable harm he was doing to a conduit long overdue for a squeeze.

What happened to all his therapy mumbo jumbo about “coping” and getting over it? All of this was making him tick, but James couldn’t find anything to say to weasel the author into talking. The man beside him was irritating when he blabbered and irritating when he was solemn. He eyeballed Harry for a moment. There was just no winning with this guy. 

If Harry would snap out of whatever was going on, he’d be grateful. 

On the other side of the coin, James was sucking Harry dry. His body felt like a human-sized sack of wet sand. The fog and snow barely registered before his eyes; his psyche was fragile; and he had to keep going. Harry Mason had to keep going because he had to find his daughter and take her home.

The snow that never melted nor piled on inches crunched under their feet. There was no conversation as they wandered, the town still and the trampled snow the only sound. 

Not even a third of the way to Midwich they came across another cracked road. It forced them to consult the map for a detour. In that moment of distraction, gurgling and gravely moaning came from the low clouds. Three familiar faces came to say hello, and the two took action. The pipe cracked bones and the booms of gunfire induced screams. The fight would be easy - or would  _ have _ been easy, but before the last went down, four others came to join the party. Then three. Then three more. 

This was the biggest pack they’d faced yet. Harry started strong, and understandably so, since they expected to battle only the first trio and be done with it. With more numbers trickling in, he was getting tired faster and faster; the infestation of emotional fatigue was too great. James had to manage the brunt of the work, firing round after round; reload, fire, rinse, repeat. 

They just kept coming. Gasping for breath, his arms sore and legs burning, Harry backed up to James and tugged on the backpack. “Gun,” he demanded weakly, and dropped to one knee when James practically threw it off. Rushing to find the firearm was mentally taxing and when he did, he had to take an extra handful of seconds for a break. Getting to his feet made his knees crack and head swim, and though he didn’t feel all too present, he took aim and joined the barrage of popping bullets.

But they still. Kept. Coming. 

Harry’s arms sagged, feeling as heavy as 75 pound weights dangling from his shoulders. “I can’t do this, James,” he told him raggedly. “I can’t do this right now. We gotta run for it. Reload,” he ordered, zipping up the backpack and fighting to tug it on. It was uncomfortable and clumsy over a jacket too big, and he tried to make it work long enough for their escape. He shoved the pipe under his arm. “We need to get out of here. Right now.”

There was no room for argument - not even the very obvious question of  _ how? _ \- for Harry was already moving out. James fired away over the short bursts from the handgun as they wove and pushed through the throng. When his shells were depleted he made do using the shotgun as a club. They thankfully emerged unscathed, for the most part, and ran until Harry’s legs forced him to stop. Panting hard, he looked around at the townhouses on this street and trudged achingly up steps to find an open door. He slogged inside, shook the backpack off, and dumped it in a chair. James closed the door and meandered after him, watching Harry pick through and get the new notepad out. 

“I’m done for the day,” he listlessly informed James. “I’m sorry. I just can’t fucking do this right now. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

Harry passed his companion and clung to the railing as he went upstairs. James remained at the foot and watched him disappear into the hall; a door opened and closed. After a long moment he let out a terse sigh and looked around. That was that. He removed the pack from the easy chair and sat down to wait. 

In the loneliness of another plain, dusty bedroom, Harry tossed the notepad onto the bed and collapsed onto the edge of the mattress. His elbows met his knees and his face dropped into his hands. He began to cry out all the torture and exhaustion of a broken head and body into the palms of a man that hated how he could’ve ended this nightmare long ago, if only he’d followed through and wrung her tiny neck lifeless. 


	30. Hit Or Miss

Harry secured his elbows on his knees and idly bumped his clasped hands against his concentrated frown, staring down at the low table in rapt contemplation. Across from him a wooden chair squeaked under James’s shifting weight. _ He sure is taking awhile, _ he thought. Albeit with much time to spare, it felt like Harry had been mulling over this problem for over an hour. James folded his arms over his chest and the seat complained again as he slumped against the backing. A short glare held his eyes for a fixed moment, then fell to the important task at hand. 

After a millennia, Harry made his choice and confidently drew back. He smiled as he rubbed his knees in self satisfaction. “Heh. B-4.”

“Miss.”

The smile disappeared. “You’re kidding me. No, come on.”

James held a shrug. His opponent scoffed. “How did I miss?”

“You guessed wrong.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I’d show you, but it’s cheating.” It was James’s turn to lean in and assess his private peg board and plastic ships. Harry assumed a reflection of the slumped posture previous of James, though his folded arms and irritated grimace were unlike James’s earlier patient, but smug attitude. James stared down at his options, picked up a couple of the red and blue pegs, and licked his lips. “G.. 7.”

“Miss.”

The roles reversed again. A cocky smirk warred against a frown. James curled his lip and placed the blue peg in its hole. Back and forth they went, each turn demanding the men to re-evaluate their strategies, and bring them closer and closer to the finish. Ships were attacked and destroyed; the seas are a cruel battleground, but they were dead set on claiming it for their own. 

A victor would soon emerge. 

“A-1.”

“.. sunk.”

“Ah-HA!” Harry smacked his palms and pumped his fist. “Gotcha! You little shit!”

James rolled his eyes. “You won.”

Harry brightened all the more. “Yeah? Damn! You put up a fight!” He laughed good-naturedly and reached to pluck his folding slate clean. “Good game. Whaddya say, best two out of three?”

James didn’t immediately budge from the way he was hunched over, elbows on his knees, and hands intertwined over his mouth. They hid a bare smile, watching the veteran prematurely reset the game. He looked down at his game board, then too began to pull the pieces off with one hand. Harry peered hopefully at his stoic face. Uncertainty hung in the air while James was forced to use both hands to complete the task, and didn’t let up even as he seemed to be rearranging the ships. Though it seemed like an agreement, he needed actual proof. “So.. best two out of three?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Harry grinned and set right to it. James finished long before Harry did, and used that time to observe him. 

Yesterday had been a reminder of how human Harry was. The cruelty of the town center and the church had taken its toll. Despite admiring that ‘keep calm and carry on’ attitude before, James had to be reminded that Harry was a weak man. Everyone has a breaking point, and yesterday showed that Harry had done a lot more bottling up than he’d thought. Funny, that.

“Okay. You go first.”

James sniffed, eyeballing the mock battleground. He dug out two pegs. “F-2.”

“Miss.”

A blue piece went into the board. At least he was feeling better. James had been relieved when Harry finally came downstairs and detected a bleed of that poisonous life. If he kept that up, it meant that Silent Hill would have a harder time finding the right moment to tap the keg. _ Good. _

“C-8.”

James smirked. “Miss.”

Harry squinted at him. “You sure about that?”

“It‘s your opening turn, Harry. How do you expect to hit me on your first try?”

“It’s that smirk on your face. Don’t get me wrong, James, but that looks like a big fat lie to me.”

“Yeah. You were just really close.” Harry narrowed his eyes to slits. “Honest.”

Slapping his knee, Harry muttered to himself (“Fine, I guess I’ll take your word for it this time,”) and made the notes. Right after he’d pushed the peg in, rocking the plastic mini briefcase, James said, “G-9.”

Harry sighed sharply. “Hit. And sunk.”

Laughing softly, James jumbled the little pegs in his hand. Harry glared at him, though it was missing its bite; a smile was beneath it. “You turd.”

“It was a lucky guess. Why’re you mad?”

“I’m not mad,” he replied, the smile becoming a grin. “I was gonna accuse you of having x-ray vision, but then I remembered I did win last time.”

James peered back at him. “Maybe I let you win.”

He was repaid by a courteous raspberry. “Oh, right, sure. If you win this one, and the next, then maybe I’ll start to believe that.”

Shrugging with his shoulders and a flare of his hands, James then locked them again and watched his stationary fleet. “Whatever you say.”

“Hrmph.” Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. He regarded his own little navy and the map above it, searching for his next move. James seemed to be in good spirits, and Harry couldn’t thank him enough for it. This was making him feel worlds better. When he’d brought the game down he expected to get some resistance about it, and in a way he did. It’d manifested as one of his signature dubious, judgmental frowns, yet he’d just shrugged and said okay. That was nice. Even better, it appeared as though he were actually enjoying himself. “D-3.” 

“Miss.”

He marked the spot. “There was also _ Monopoly _ upstairs.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to fight anymore.”

A chuckle burst from Harry. “You got me. You know, _Monopoly_ _actually_ broke up a marriage,” he said, looking up. “Worse? I had to watch it. Talk about awkward.”

James wrinkled his nose at the ships. “A-6.”

“Hit. I always liked the wheelbarrow. _ Monopoly _ can be fun, you just gotta play with the right people.”

“I’m not the right people.”

Harry snorted. “No kidding? Playing one-on-one is a bad idea anyway._ Operation _ can get pretty tense, too. What is it about playing board games as an adult that brings out the worst in people? I mean, it kind of weeds out the ones that take things too seriously and show some true colors, but damn. Growing up sucks.” He pursed his lips. “G-5.”

“Miss.”

“Seriously, what kind of setup do you have over there? How am I missing nearly everything?”

James lifted his shoulders to his ears. “Not my problem. A-5.”

“Stop it,” the survivor grunted. “You’re gonna ruin my winning streak.”

“Like I said.”

“Jerk,” he grumbled, putting the red pin in his ship. “Uh.. I was close to one last time. What was.. oh! C-9.”

James stuck a red peg in. “Hit.”

“Oooh. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I think you’re taking this pretty seriously, too.”

Harry frowned with his brows. “Am not. I’m getting into the spirit of it. There’s a difference.”

“Mm. A-4.”

“Miss.”

James regarded the game in a thoughtful beat of silence. “Did you teach Heather to play like you?”

Smiling broadly, Harry leaned back and rubbed his thighs. “A bit, I guess, although she’s taken up to doing a victory dance when she wins. I’d say I at least passed down the enthusiasm. Uh.. D-9.”

“Hit. I’m surprised _ you _ didn’t do a victory dance.”

“Too old for it. I have to show some maturity, or else I get branded as someone who takes the game too seriously.”

Green eyes glanced up. Harry studied them, then wrinkled his nose. “Shut up.”

“A-7.”

Instead of a raspberry or a salty remark, Harry made an explosion sound, complete with pantomime. James kept his smile behind his protective hands. “That’s two down, Sunderland. Keep it comin’. It’s still early in the battle.”

“Mm.”

Settling back into the chair, the author bounced his knee and tilted his head at his opponent. “Are there any other games you particularly like?”

James absently rubbed his mouth against his hands. “Mm. Can’t think of any.”

“Aw, c’mo—“

“Can’t remember them, either.”

“Oh, well, see - that makes a difference.” Harry eyeballed him again. “You.. seem like a checkers guy. Mmmmaybe.. the game of _ Life _? Or.. hm.. that little fishing game with the snapping fish that you gotta pick up with a magnet pole.”

Pushing his knotted fingers underneath his nose, James compulsively squished it upwards in the mimicry of a pig’s snout. The act summoned a breathy laugh from the man across the table. “_ Let’s Go Fishin’. _”

“What, right now? I don’t think there’s a Dick’s Sporting Goods or Bass Pro around here.. much less a good fishing spot.”

“It’s your turn, Harry.”

“Oh! Right. Uh.. what was..? E-9.”

“Sunk.”

“Nice.”

“The game was called _ ‘Let’s Go Fishin _’.” Their eyes met again. 

“Okay, so you don’t remember any of the other board games aside from the ones I’ve mentioned, but you remember the name of the fishing game.”

Another unsurprising shrug. Harry scoffed at him. “I don’t get you.”

James judgmentally searched his face. “I don’t get you, either. G-2.”

“Boom. Hit. What’s not to get? I’ve been pretty transparent, for the most part. Speaking of, where’re you in the reading? Oh, uh.. F-3.”

“Miss. I got to Lisa. G-1.”

Harry winced. “Hit. In more ways than one. You’re on a roll.” He uncomfortably scrubbed his thighs. “So you’re at Alchemilla. Oh, and you sunk me.”

“The basement is interesting. It’s strange that she said she was knocked out and just ‘woke up.’”

“Yeah.. she and Kaufmann. It was pretty weird. I don’t know how that was feasible, but I never really got any answers about it, if I recall correctly.” He stretched his neck side to side. “F-5.”

James hummed. “Hit. E-2.”

“Leave my ships alone, will ya?”

“I would, but that’s not the point of the game.”

“Don’t bring reality into this. F-4.”

“Sunk.”

“Boo-yah.” 

James squinted peevishly, though it was largely in jest. When Harry noticed, he opened his mouth to make some dumb retort, and got cut right off. “You’re embarrassing.”

“Heather, is that you?” He chuckled at the more genuine offense. “Yeah, I know. It’s my favorite personality trait, and it’s sad that it’s so under-appreciated.” 

“Is it?”

“My opinion says it is, and only my opinion matters on it so yeah, I’d say so.” Harry softly frowned upon watching James clasp his hands again. “Hey. How’s that burn? I’m surprised you’re not rolling in agony. I totally forgot all about it.”

James looked down at his bandaged knuckles. “Doesn’t hurt. I forgot about it, too.” He sat up and unwound the strip to unveil a clean, healed palm. There was no sign that there had ever been any damage. The two sat there, stupefied. “Hm.”

“Well. That’s interesting.” Remembering he’d been splashed as well, Harry pushed up his sleeves to check his forearms. He, too, had healed to perfection. “Huh. Okay, then. That’s neat. Is it wrong to have a bad feeling about it, though?”

James flexed his fingers and thread them together as they were. “Dunno. Why would you have a bad feeling about it?”

Harry pushed a half-frown into one cheek. “I don’t know, it seems.. counterintuitive.” He dropped his arms and looked at James. “Silent Hill is stalking us and trying to get us maimed or killed, and yet it heals us up? What’s the point?”

Another shrug from the resident. “Maybe it wants us alive. Scarred and fucked up, but alive.”

“Ooh. Now that’s a thought. Mm, makes me feel all important and tingly.”

The mild scorn from the strange young man brought a smile to Harry’s aged features. They stared at each other for another beat until James reminded him, “It’s your turn.”

“Ah! Right. Hokay. B.. -10.”

“Hit.”

“Ha!”

The round was soon won by the longtime citizen. They played their last game to determine the true champion and with it came the return of the old, cheerful Harry. James felt his reserves gradually drip away to the pounding of irate castigations in his head. He’d surely be punished for his insolence. Right now, he couldn’t care. There were bigger fish cooking on the grill and he couldn’t let them burn.

When the tournament was over and James crowned king of the seas, they separated for a final time to tend to their respective notes old and new. Daybreak brought Harry downstairs once more to toss his new journal in the backpack. James rose to put the memoir away and stared blankly down at what Harry had dropped in. On its front page, a crude drawing of a smiley face with its tongue sticking out was wedged beneath ungracefully scrawled, capitalized letters warning: ** _‘NO JAMES SUNDERLANDS ALLOWED!!’ _ **

James glanced at Harry’s broad back, then down again. He shook his head and finished packing up. For a man so clever, insightful, and predominantly mature, Harry could be awfully childish. Or maybe ‘carefree’ was the better word - with the true inability to actually be carefree in Silent Hill notwithstanding. Whatever the right word was, it was Harry in a nutshell. 

But it was that same vivacity that made Harry so human and thus, so oblivious to how he will contribute to the noxious tribulations ahead.


	31. First Day Blues

_ Don’t move _. Harry Mason swallowed hard and pressed his back flush against the crumbling brick wall. He’d read once that the most effective way to breathe nearly soundlessly was to tilt one’s head skyward and drop the jaw wide. It supposedly allowed airflow to travel seamlessly from lungs to lips and would effectively diminish the noise of panting. Coupled with the effort of trying to keep both his breathing and war drum heartbeat under control, he hoped to whatever god was listening today that it wasn’t as loud as it was in his ears. 

He closed his eyes and focused. _ Breathe deep, expand your ribs. _ The breath came as shudders, skipping treacherously as the scraping, weighted sound of feet drew closer. Harry bared his teeth to the clammy alley stinking of mold, rust, and copper, and snapped his jaw shut. _ Easy. Easy. God, we should’ve kept running. _ He filled his lungs through his nose and clenched his jaw. It was unfair to have _ just _ taken a little siesta after the hell day they’d had and immediately be faced with one of the things that had made it so awful, yet here they were. 

Her reappearance so soon didn’t bode well, in his mind. With how gruesome and strangely important she felt, he thought that she’d have been a rarity. Apparently not. 

Harry hated the idea of her becoming a regular occurrence. He really, really hated her; but not nearly as much as he did the burned man and his little girl. 

It gave him a start when his sweating hand was roughly taken. Harry darted his eyes to his right to the face of a man whose deadened eyes somehow said, ‘_ Relax _.’ Forcing a wry smile to his lips, he clasped the one pale and slicked with blood in return.

He appreciated that. 

The abomination stopped at the mouth of the dark hall. Brown eyes were locked onto green. Harry knew that James could see past him at the vengeful old hag, yet the conduit stubbornly held the stare of this desperate father.

How unexpected of him, Harry thought, to show such compassion. Then again, reflection added, James had given him some leniency after that no good, horrible, really bad day. It was nice to think that he might be warming up to him some more, but Harry didn’t dare contemplate it too hard; after all, one must never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sticky heaves from their hunter resounded in the dank alley. Her feet shuffled. The shift of her noise suggested she was looking away, but then swung back in their direction. Neither moved. Their bodies were as stiff as the rusted steel pipe that Harry bore in his left hand. Seconds were taking centuries to pass.

Her sloppy breathing spluttered a growl. Polluted blood and decay wafted like macabre potpourris in the air. Harry stared vigilantly at stony features which were his companion’s face. _ I know _ , he thought loudly. _ I know. Relax. Don’t look. _

Drops of syrupy ichor splashed on the ground. Their hands were disgusting and humid, mixing wet grime between their palms. The creature rattled and hacked disappointedly. She began to put real effort into her retching, bringing the survivors’ faces to contort in disgust fix at one another for the duration of her god forsaken performance. 

And then, something vile and dense slopped to the sidewalk.

Harry grimaced and broke their stare, looking at the ground. They knew what it was and wished they didn’t. Her improvisations combined with the fresh discharge’s odor was nauseating to the point that the bile nipped Harry’s throat; his stomach contracted hard, lurching him, and he struggled to restrain the first cough.

The choking alerted their deadly stalker and she took a step past the threshold of the alley. Harry drove the back of his left hand to his mouth, but changed his mind, shoving his head into the bend of his elbow to better silence himself and ward away the clench of his stomach. James’s hand held his even tighter, a sharp pull on his arm ordering him to stay fucking quiet. 

Harry swallowed and swallowed down the panic and sick. _ Get the fuck away from us, please get the _ ** _fuck_ ** _ away from us! _ he screamed within his head and by the pity from something wild and unknown, the creature lost interest and slugged down the street.

The nauseating noose around his throat was just beginning to settle when James yanked Harry, stumbling, out of the alley, taking off in the opposite direction. Harry’s weakened grasp and the slip of their dirty fingers near-threatened departure, but the resident’s grip was like iron as he led the escape down the road. 

They ran until they reached the lawn of Midwich Elementary School. Harry, winded and queasy from the sprint, broke off from his guardian and staggered to the side on bent knees, bracing his hands upon them. James watched from where they’d parted, calm as can be. The effort of their dash, as always, neglected to affect him; it was no different than taking a stroll to the mailbox. After coughing and a dry heave from Harry yielded nothing, James tilted his head, waiting for him to finish pulling himself together.

Having caught his breath and mostly settled his stomach at last, Harry drew himself up and looked, pale-faced, to James. He exhaled hard and shook his head, taking his eyes to the abandoned school towering ahead. “I hate that thing.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I can’t fucking believe we ran into her again so soon. What bullshit is that?” Harry huffed a laugh and returned to James, thudding his hand twice on his shoulder. “Thanks for taking the lead there. That fucking sucked. We did good, though.” Upon realizing he’d left behind a smear on the backpack strap from his yucky hand, he grimaced and wiped his palm off on his slacks. “Ugh. Gross. Sorry.”

James made a noncommittal noise and adjusted the grip on his shotgun. He cast his eyes to his shoulder, frowned, looked down at the wet smudges on his firearm, then also cleaned his hand on his jeans. “Whatever.”

Harry swung the pipe at his side, then tried to flip and catch it in the air. The pipe bounced away from them on the grass. Clearly, he was going to need more practice. “I hate to say it, but I’m kinda glad we ditched the radio,” he mentioned on the short journey to his runaway pipe. “I guess we’ll see if it was really worth it to send it off like that though, eh?”

“If we hadn’t broken it open, we wouldn’t’ve gotten that die.”

“Oh, yeah.” Harry grunted as he snatched his weapon up, and looked to James. “I forgot about that. We’ll keep our eyes peeled in here for anything that might relate to it.”

“Mm.”

Harry shouldered the pipe, then suddenly pointed it at him. “You know? There’s a piano in one of the classrooms.”

James fixed him with the usual emotionless stare that had, just minutes ago, shown Harry a morsel of empathy - if he’d read him right. It had been out of left field, but in his mind, that was worlds better than the common annoyance.

“I know. I read about it in your notes.”

He hummed, dropping the steel back to his shoulder. “I keep forgetting about those. What I’ve written, I mean. Heh. I keep forgetting about a lot of things.” A smirk accompanied the glance he shot James’s way. “Except for the small, dumb little details that are, and aren’t, all that important.”

He expected nothing, and he got a bare tick above his expectations. “Yeah. I guess.” Then James turned away.

Harry rolled his head and sighed once more. Their route was unconventional and unappreciated, but they had made it to Midwich. He stepped onto the concrete walkway and deferentially scanned the prison of time that awaited them.

Seventeen years had passed between his theoretical first day at school and his return for this alumni honor ceremony, and he wished he could’ve ignored the RSVP. The loyal and determined father began the ascent to the old entry of the elementary school. Boots shuffled close behind him, and when Harry closed his hand on the antique handle, he looked over his shoulder at the ashen, hollow presence of his companion.

“We best get to class before we get detention. C’mon, new kid.” 

Harry courageously pulled open the rigid door, and reintroduced himself to Midwich Elementary School.

The school was as dark and quiet as any other place they’d visited. Schools had a distinct smell to them, and this one was no different, save for the overlay of dust and dirt. Past the confined lobby was the welcome hall where they now stood, and before them a pair of windowed, heavy wooden doors led out into the school courtyard. 

James peered at the patterned vinyl tile, fashioned to resemble hardwood, beneath their feet. A large red border snaked around each wall and corner, enclosing a floor of beige within it. He thought it would’ve been fine like that - classy, even - if only there weren’t these spaced rows of blue squares ruining it. 

James was hardly an interior decorator, much less known for having an ant’s artistic eye, yet he thought more than a few people would agree with him that the addition of blue was kinda tacky. He contemplated the school’s design ethics while Harry went to the reception desk. 

“Yeah, hi, I’m looking for my daughter, Cheryl— uh, Heather,” he fumbled to an empty office chair. “I need to take her out of class; it’s a family emergency. Can you have someone get her for me? Thanks.”

He brushed the grey layer settled on a clipboard holding flyers for after-school activities, then pulled the sign in ledger over to him. He started to absently hum under his breath, then bit it right off. _ No more of that for a while, _ he chastised himself. So he sniffed in its stead, reading the dates and names of parents checking in to their appointments or to take their children out for the day. The page was full, so he turned to the next - and immediately stiffened. 

Harry’s own handwriting was scrawled on a line beneath a few blank sections. It read:

  * Date: 2/23/1999
  * Name: Harry Mason
  * Relation: Father
  * Name of student: Cheryl Mason
  * Reason for visit: —-

The text was heavily scratched out. 

His heart was in his throat. He didn’t remember writing this at all - _ he needed to read his own damn notes! _\- but what ran him cold was what was jotted further down on the page, separated by a block of blanks:

  * Date: --/--/----
  * Name: Heather Mason
  * Relation: Self
  * Name of student: ——— —— --——— 
  * Reason for visit: 3B

“James. I need that notepad.”

The intensity of his tone was chilling. James opened the backpack on the low counter and handed him the notepad. He watched Harry anxiously flip through the pages, then eyeballed the tiny area beyond. 

Disorganization clouded all available surface space, and that went for the Xerox machine in the corner, too. Clutter was everywhere, whereas the seventeen-year-old memos mentioned only a teacher directory and three books desecrated by riddles written in blood. None of those things even appeared to be here anymore. Harry hadn’t seemed to think much of it. Maybe he just didn’t remember.

He wondered if he’d notice it in his notes.

Back and forth the pages flipped while the father and darted his eyes over the cursive. Finally, he expelled a hard exhale and looked at James. “Did you read anything about the sign-in book?”

James wrinkled his brow. “Like what?”

“Like, did I say anything about my name written in it?”

After thinking about it, he slowly shook his head, the creases deepening. “No..? I don’t even think you mentioned it at all.”

“Fuck!” Harry hissed, pushing the pad back to James. “Fuck.”

“Why?”

“My fucking name is written in here,” he exasperated, flattening the page to show him. “It’s in my own fucking handwriting, but I didn’t write this. And Heather’s down here too,” he pointed. “That’s _ her _ handwriting. This is fucked. Fuck me. 3B.” Harry quickly checked the empty pages beyond, then the list of prior ones names he didn’t recognize. “3B. We’ve got our first stop.”

Understandably angry, Harry expended some of that in shoving the book off the edge to the other side, where it caught on papers and slid them all to the floor. James watched him snag his pipe and march around into the narrow office. “We need a map of the school,” he muttered. “So let’s find one.”

While Harry messed with the disorganized space, James packed up and checked the walls. A bulletin board right behind him and facing the reception hung over a long blue bench. Numerous tacked, overlapping papers advertised a bake sale and after-school tutoring; another reminded parents of the parent-teacher conference coming up; Balkan Church currently offering “afterschool” bible study on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday; _ Don’t forget to sign up for the field trip to Shepherd’s Glen! _

He softly frowned. Shepherd’s Glen. The name was new to him, but James felt an odd familiarity about it. Chewing on his lip, he read the details _ (Meet Judge Margaret Holloway and learn about the four founding families of Shepherd’s Glen! Tour includes the town hall, town courthouse and garden, and —-! Lunch will be provided by Happy Burger!) _then dropped his eyes to the contact number. Whoever was in charge of the event was etched out, yet the numbers remained.

James wrinkled his nose. It struck a chord, as though it might be important. He warred with whether or not he should take it. Harry came up next to him and looked over the signs. 

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothin’, really.” 

There was a rest while Harry inspected the board for himself. “Mm. Fun. Fun stuff.” His eyes lingered on the parent-teacher conference notice, then saw the field trip announcement. “Oh, cool. Shepherd’s Glen.”

“You know it?”

“Not at all.” He tapped the blacked out name with the edge of the hollow steel. “And not very organized. Must’ve changed hands last minute, though it’s weird to keep the number there. Oh well.” 

James flinched when the rod bumped his calf. He flashed Harry’s back a mild glare. “C’mon, James,” he said. “Couldn’t find a map back there, and the door was locked, so it’s time to go hunting for one.”

He looked back at the reminder. _ Take it, _ his intuition whispered. _ You’ll need it. _

“James? You spacing out over there, or..?”

“Calm down,” he retorted, walking over to him. Harry considered him a moment, then mockingly wagged his head and started off. 

Harry leisurely wandered the hall alongside his guardian, losing himself in some idle thoughts. He gave a small start when James spoke. 

“I wonder if we’ll see the shadow children around here.”

He looked at him. “Maybe. I hope they’ve lost their knives if we do. Ankle biters turned knee stabbers... didn’t anyone teach them not to walk around with knives held straight up?” 

“You mentioned they squeaked.”

“They did! Like you know how leather jackets make that squeaky sound?” Though his was beat up and had lost its gloss, Harry did what he could to mimic the noise. James eyed him blandly. “Like that. Or squeaky toys... y’know, like for dogs?”

“I get what you mean.”

Harry blew him a terse raspberry. “I’m setting the mood, James. Spoilsport.”

“You expect to run into a dog?”

“Uh, no. Not one of the ones around here. Hm. Now that you mention it, we haven’t _ seen _ any dogs around at all.”

“There was the dead one in the alley.”

Harry tipped his head and wrinkled his brow. “Hm. Was there?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” He shrugged, then turned the corner with James to head up to the second floor. “Then scratch that, we’ve seen one dog.”

“I meant to ask,” James broached as they reached the next hall, “what happened to Cybil?”

Harry straightened his spine, eyeballing him tensely while they meandered down the wide corridor. “After Silent Hill? We kept in contact for about a year, then I stopped hearing from her. I figured she wanted to sever all ties with the place. Can’t blame her at all.”

James hummed. “So she’s alive.”

“As far as I know, and I wish her well.” He glanced to his right at him again. “What made you think of her? Oh, let’s check in here,” he added, cutting off in front of James to enter an open classroom. James curled his lip, and naturally followed. 

“Because of the alley.” The conduit stood at the head of the classroom, looking very much like a stern teacher the way he tracked Harry weaving through the rows of small, dusty desks. “The body we found strung up. I was thinking about it before while I was reading.” 

He waited for acknowledgment, which he got in the form of silence and useless fiddling with the stuck lids of the compartment desks. “I thought maybe it was her.”

“What was her?” Harry looked over his shoulder. His guardian frowned back. 

“What?”

“What was her?”

They stared at one another. “The body,” James repeated slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. “I was just talking about it. The one we found in the alley, that was strung up?” His eyes roved over Harry’s blank face; it was like this was the first time he was hearing about it, and the resident couldn’t believe that he was trying to make a stupid joke like this. “Harry.”

“What?”

“The _ body—“ _

“Jesus Christ, James. I heard you the first five times. What _ body _ are you talking about?”

Disgust parted his lips and wrinkled the corner of a nostril. “Are you fucking around right now?”

A flush of irritation reached the author’s countenance. “No, James, I’m _ not,” _ he snipped. “I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about. What _ body, _ and _ why _ are you bringing Cybil into it?”

Disbelief slowly overtook disgust. James couldn’t believe what he saw on Harry; it really _ did _ look like this was brand new to him. “Harry,” he started, rather seriously. “The alley.”

“Yes.”

“Where we went to after we found your car.”

“Yes.”

“Where the dead dog was.”

_ “Yes,” _ he exasperated, impatiently rolling his hand. “Get on with it, hurry it up.”

“Where we found the body on the stretcher, and you got the key to the auto shop.”

Harry sighed hard, taking his eyes to the ceiling to ask the pockmarked tiles for mercy. ** _“Yes_ ** _ , _ James,” said his cranky tone. _ “Please _ get to the fucking point.”

“At the end of the alley, there were wire fences,” James described, still intent on speaking to the veteran like he had a mighty cognitive disability. The other man clearly picked up on it, and was glowering at him out of the corner of his eye. “The alley ended at a dead end, and there was a body strung up on the fence with barbed wire.”

Then he took a short pause in case that jostled a pebble loose. Still nothing; Harry only looked as though he was dating the idea of tying him up and gagging him to leave him for dead. That didn’t bother him. He continued, “The body was wearing clothes. Blue shirt, black pants, boots, gloves? You said in your notes that Cybil was a police officer and she rode a motorcycle. You even briefly described her wearing the same clothes.”

Harry’s anger washed away to that tiredness that plagued him a lot lately. “James.”

“Harry. Do you remember that body at the end of that alley?” 

“No. I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “Okay, then what _ do _ you remember?”

Shaking his head, Harry dropped his chin at last and dug the heel of his palm into his forehead. “We went into the alley. We found the stretcher and the key.”

“Uh huh.”

“We followed it all the way..”

“Yeah?”

His eyes roved over the desk in front of him, searching for a memory that wasn’t there. “.. and then.. we’re back in the alley behind all the houses, by a garage.”

Silence ate up the classroom. James, reasonably worried, watched Harry struggle to find the missing link in the chain. He was none too thrilled with the development, nor the implications. “You don’t remember anything.” Harry defeatedly shook his head. “At all. .. did you black it out?”

The shoulders clad in oversized leather drooped. “James.. I guess I did. I guess I did.” Dark eyes lifted, then narrowed against the flashlight clipped to James’s breast pocket. He looked so old. “I’m sorry. That sounds fucked up. I don’t know what to say about it. Maybe it was Cybil, or supposed to be her, but I don’t remember, James, and I’d just like to keep going.”

James frowned at his ward’s back while he resumed his search, then looked away. Also preferring to pretend everything was fine, he awkwardly shuffled around to face the chalkboard, himself.

The flashlight beckoned James’s eyes to the chalkboard’s far corner. He went to get a better look, then bent over to peer at the white scratches smushed into a small space, like a private little note. “_ ‘I don’t wanna be judged,’ _ ” James read aloud, drawing Harry to him from the back of the room. “ _ ‘So I put it in a locker.’ _”

The combined lights from their jackets cast a hard beam on the green chalkboard and its meek confession. “Well, there’s a locker room around here,” Harry mentioned, nestling his hand into his pocket. “And a ton of other lockers. Which is great.”

“Really? Didn’t notice. That’s odd for a school.”

“You’re a card and a couple poker chips. We need to find a map, and 3B.”

“Nothing around here?”

“We’ll come back around to it. C’mon,” he said, intentionally catching James by the back of his ankle with his rusty bludgeon as he passed him, and thus ignoring the glare at the back of his head. “We’re not supposed to be in a classroom without a teacher, anyway.”

James trailed after him. On a whim, he muttered, “Brown-noser.”

Harry tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Delinquent.” The smile held, then he stepped out into the checkered hall.

The conduit fell into place at Harry’s right. Their time in Midwich had just begun, and to James already spelled problematic. But before he could get into thinking about it too hard, a foreboding itch tickled the back of his neck. As he was graced by a whisper from the silent masters that be, James had to lock his jaw tight to prevent himself from warning Harry against forgetting anything else.


	32. Just Say No! To School Bullies

There were lockers aplenty to search through here in Midwich Elementary, stored along the halls, decorating classrooms, and providing hidden possibilities in abundance. 

To Harry’s chagrin, they’d nearly gotten halfway down the hall when he remembered they ought to check the cabinets in the room they’d just left. So they backtracked, making a short, jading sweep of unwilling metal doors. However, there was a singular, regular door at the back of the room that had them in its favor, and gave way to the discovery of its connection to the neighboring class. This second room was as informational as the first (and that is to say, hardly at all), though they did take a minute to scrutinize the picture on the wall of Jesus levitating amongst heaven’s clouds. 

“I didn’t know this was a religious school.”

“I don’t think it is. Or maybe it is.”

“Mm.”

“I guess it’d make sense, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, think about it: small town, big church.. small town people tend to be the Christian kind. We _ might _ find a small, tiny little synagogue tucked away somewhere, but I highly doubt it. Christianity is always the big ticket.”

“And front.”

“Yep. The Order works behind everything.”

“Hm.”

“You ever practice any religion?”

James snorted. Harry chuckled. “That answers that.”

“I think we’ve had that discussion, too.”

“Eh, we can have the same discussions again sometimes. Who knows? Maybe the answer changes.”

James watched him go check out the construction paper art on the walls. “Why would it change?”

“Oh, you know,” Harry breezily mused. “Maybe someone’s shy about being religious or uncomfortable with giving out some other information at first.” He looked back at James. “Right? I thought we’d kinda learned that about each other already.”

He grunted. “Don’t know about that. You’ve either said what you’ve wanted to right off, or gave anything else on your own accord. What you didn’t tell me, I read.”

Harry scrunched his face and pensively squinted off to the side. “Hm.. well, maybe so, but—“

“You talk a lot.”

He glanced up. “Funny, usually people tell me I’m really quiet.”

His green shoulders lifted and fell. Harry scoffed. “Meanwhile, it’s like I gotta use the jaws of life for getting anything out of you. But haven’t we been over _ that _ a thousand times, too?” he added with a shrug of his own, returning to the hall and holding the door open for James. “Potato, potato. We’re a couple peas in a pod; our own Penn and Teller. Groucho and Harpo. Laurel and Hardy.”

The odd frown he gave Harry made the latter smile. “What’s the matter now?”

“You’re supposed to say ‘potato’ differently.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

James went flat. “Seriously?”

Mock concern wrinkled his brows. “What? Did I do it wrong again?”

Last but not least were the bathrooms at the end of the corridor. Harry took the initiative in poking his head in for a quick look-around from the threshold. Nothing unusual caught his eye in either one, but when he pivoted for the set of doors to the next hall, he got a good jump scare out of coming chest-to-chest with the man who could not learn. Harry exhaled hard, glowering right into James’s face. 

_ “Hi.” _

“Hi.”

Leaning his head back, Harry put the center of his palm into his cohort’s shoulder and slowly extended his arm, pushing him back. “Save room for Jesus, James. Jesus Christ, speaking of, what’s with you and invading my personal space?”

James backtracked as forcibly requested. “I was looking.”

“Wh— why would you—? Nevermind. If Silent Hill doesn’t give me a heart attack, _ you _ will if you keep doing that.”

Sidestepping him, he collided with the push bar on the door and swung into the next section of the school. A kick kept the entry open for James to pass through without issue. The first closed off room was one he remembered very well (blood on ivory keys that sometimes appeared on his piano at home when he was running on fumes), though its door knob wouldn’t turn. Gazing down at his hand on the brass-plated ball, he distractedly picked the key slot with his thumbnail. He had a good - or bad - feeling that they’d need to get back in there, and before his ruminating could go too far, the noise of a firm attempt at opening a barred door hooked him back to reality.

James tapped the wood and stepped away. “Locker room.”

“Fitting, the locker room being locked.” 

“Mm.”

“Here’s the music room,” he mentioned, also knocking his weapon upon the door. “We’ll probably find our way back here again, if the usual pattern’s anything to go by.”

“Mm.”

“How many keys do you think we’ll pick up while we’re here, eh? We haven’t added to the ol’ keyring in awhile. Heh. We could probably start using it as a weapon, y’know. Tie or hammer it onto a stick somehow and start swingin’.” He grinned. “Not too bad of an idea, huh? It’ll at least make them useful, since they’re probably useless now, for the most part.”

To that, James shrugged. There was a pause in which Harry hoped he’d get a verbal answer, yet none came. Harry shook his head. 

The open-air balcony overlooking the courtyard drew him to the sill, peering into the fog and drift. There were two separated sections for visitors and scholars to admire the grounds, and the men each occupied a side. James searched the grey up high, and Harry the ground below. 

Off in the far corner stood the clock tower, a guardian of the school and keeper of time. It was no more than a vague shadow behind the clouds. Like Harry had remarked about the music room, James was certain that it’d be of use to them sometime soon.

As though he were reading his mind, Harry spoke. “How much you wanna bet that clock tower is gonna be a part of whatever we do here?”

It’d been awhile since they’d seemingly been in each other’s heads. James was marginally amused. “A lot.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty big ‘no duh.’” Harry drummed his fingers on the ledge. “What’d I write about that, do you remember?”

As a matter of fact, he did. In rereading the Midwich portion of the memos the past couple days to prepare for their quest, James rediscovered the haphazard and frankly unreadable scratches in some of the pages. However, there’d been one page that read ‘clocktower’ and was underlined hard. 

And that was it.

“Nothing.” James looked over at Harry. “You didn’t write anything.”

“Hm.” The wayward father looked off into the distance. “Bummer.”

James considered the shrouded pillar in the courtyard until he was summoned by the clack of a push bar giving way to the corridor. Once slipping through the doorway, he joined Harry in checking lockers as they came across them. Orphaned jackets and notebooks found homes in some of these lockers, but lacked anything that appeared important. The classrooms on this side produced nothing of interest in the cabinets, but James did find something nostalgic in a student’s compartment desk. 

He turned to Harry with his thumbs and forefingers stuck underneath the four cones of a child’s paper fortune teller. “Hey. Harry.”

Delight lit up the author’s face. “Hey! Cool!” he exclaimed, giddily peering at the numbered tabs. “A fortune teller! Nice. You know how to do this?”

“No,” he admitted, letting his companion have the thing instead. “No idea how it works.”

“Aw, c’mon, really? I used to make these things all the time. Cheryl and Heather _ loved _ these. Much easier to play than MASH,” he said, wedging his large fingers into a craft a bit too small for them. James frowned softly. 

“_M*A*S*H _? That’s a show.”

“Yeah, it’s also a fortune game. It stands for, uhh..” Harry squinted hard at the ceiling to help him recall. “Marry.. uh.. no, it’s ‘mansion, apartment, shack, house.’ You’re supposed to make a list of how you figure your life’s gonna go, like how many kids, where you wanna live, shit like that,” he explained. “Then you go and count numbers..? I dunno. It’s been awhile. Cheryl tried to predict my life a couple times,” Harry muttered, examining the pyramid. “Not even Heather could get close. Heh.”

James watched his ward roll his shoulders, and with them, did away the sad old memories. “Anyway, so!” Harry grinned, holding it aloft. “Pick a number, any number. One through four.”

“Uh.. three.” He watched the mouth open horizontal, vertical, then horizontal again. 

“Okay, let’s see.. you’ve got four other choices in there. Pick one of them.”

“Um.. twenty-one.”

Harry frowned and double checked that it was actually written there. “Twenty-one. Damn. Okay.” The ritual repeated until the maw held open for the next choice. James evaluated his options. 

“Two.”

It shuffled again. “And now, a final number for your fortune.”

“Four.”

Harry picked open the triangular tab, frowned, and pulled it in closer to read. “_ ‘After this week, you will be popular for the rest of the year.’ _ Congratulations, James!” he beamed. “After this week, you can sit at the cool kids table. Just gotta tough it out a few more days.”

James didn’t look as thrilled with the good news as a grade schooler may have been. “Cool.”

Chuckling, Harry pried open the rest of the game to read the others. “Ah, James,” he sighed. “I’d kill for your ‘fuck ‘em’ attitude towards whether or not people like you.”

He had nothing for him. But Harry’s brows furrowed while he read, rotating the page as he went. James’s grunt was questioning. 

“Some of these other ones read weird,” he distractedly replied. “Like.. hm.”

More silence meant ‘I’m waiting.’ Clearing his throat, Harry tried to straighten out the deeply creased paper with a firm tug, then read aloud. “_ ‘She cursed you last period.’ ‘Mrs. M— thinks you’re special. Yay!’ ‘You’ll win at courtyard keep away this week.’ ‘You’ll flunk the math test at eleven-thirty.’ ‘You’re gonna be —-a’s best friend. Gross!’ ‘At one o’clock you can unlock the treat box.’ _ Huh.”

James looked impassively at the unfolded fortune teller. “Sounds interesting.”

“You think? We better watch the time.” Harry flipped it to check the back and did a double take. Between the lopsided cracks of the folded squares were letters, and unfolding the origami game revealed a verse that they could have missed without Harry’s natural curiosity. “Oh. Wait. There’s something else: 

_ “‘One is the neighbor and friend of two; four is company, but also a crowd; three stands alone, waiting on the side. Together they’re a family, though one always goes missing; we do our homework, but never learn a thing.’ _” 

He fingered the page, wrinkling the corner of his nose. “Hm.”

Tilting his head, James stared banally at the wealth of clues. Harry completely unfolded it, folded it again, and stuck it in his inner pocket. They stood quietly, the father chewing on the riddles, and the widower calmly awaiting the next move.

By the way Harry’s frown turned troubled, he could tell there was something else on his mind. The silence yawned until Harry stuck his hand into his pocket and took his uneasy eyes to James. “‘She cursed you last period.’”

He raised his brows. Expecting him to go on, James held their stare; Harry looked more fraught the longer he turned his assumptions over in his head. “They have to mean Alessa. You’ve covered Alessa already, right?”

“Yeah. A bit.” 

“Yeah,” he echoed, averting his eyes to the floor. “Poor thing. That was a whole fucked up situation.” 

A lull briefly followed. 

“Damn. I’d kind of forgotten about her and Midwich. You know, the first time I saw her was in the boiler room here. She was a ghost. And she looked _ older _, like a teenager. I guess I still don’t quite understand that still. Tch. Welcome to the Redundancy Department of Redundancy,” Harry snorted, mocking himself for the flub. He spent another stretch of seconds lost in himself, then sighed, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye.

“Ooh, Silent Hill,” came a world weary groan. “God.. dammit. I mean, I knew Alessa would be unavoidable; we’d have to find something about her, or do something with her, or.. ugh.” His palm drove slow circles into the socket. “No matter how much a guy can try to prepare for shit like this, the truth is that you just can’t. You just can’t. .. god. That poor girl,” the author mumbled low. “She didn’t deserve any of this.”

Harry shook his head once again and dropped his hand, blearily focusing on James. “Welp. We’ve got a lot of stuff to go on already. We best get to it,” he told him, sweeping his arm out to direct his cohort to the door. “We can use our thinkers as we need ‘em. Let’s try to find 3B and that locker.”


	33. We'll Be Friends Forever

Taking the hint to move along, James turned heel and went for the door. He pushed it open and not a moment later abruptly gasped in pain, quickly picking up his feet and stumbling backwards into Harry. “Ow! Fuck, shit!”

Harry staggered a little with the sudden weight, grabbing him by the shoulders for support. “What—“

“Little asshole!” Briefly using Harry as a foundation, James swiftly kicked the chubby and toddler-sized, featureless monster wielding a knife in its hand to the floor with a whimper and thud. Harry tipped to the side to see what happened and groaned. 

“There those suckers are. Took ‘em long enough! You okay?”

“Fucker stabbed me!” Shoving off the other man, James stepped forward and punted the little beast down again and promptly sent his heel thrice through its unnaturally large head. Harry shimmied his shoulders and made to follow when he, too, was suddenly assaulted by meaty arms grabbing his leg and carelessly hacking his thigh. He yelped and beat the vermin off before it could do real damage, and much like James, threw it to the ground with a good swing and beat it lifeless. 

“Great! Ow,  _ fuck!” _ he hissed, swiping his hand across his slacks which were slashed through to the skin in several places and bleeding. “Aw, come  _ ooonnn. _ My fucking pants! Ouch, UGH! Knife cuts are the worst; and what the fuck am I gonna do about fucked up pants?!”

“There’s more of ‘em,” James warned, and sure enough, the flesh bags emerged from the shadows. With Harry in the classroom and James in the hall, the door closed without the conduit there to prop it open. On either side of the wall, their few aggressive playmates lost this round to toppling kicks, boot heels, and steel until Harry burst from the classroom in a mild panic. Looking this way and that, he found James putting the finishing touches on the final one, and instantly relaxed. 

“Whew. Fuck. Let’s not get caught behind closed doors, huh? I thought that was gonna lock us out.”

James wiped his shoe off on the floor, checked the sole, then dragged it again. The mushy smear it painted made him sneer in disgust. “Yeah. Sure.”

Stretching his neck, Harry stepped over a mangled body to try the last set of lockers it blocked. James shuffled out of the way, deciding this was a good enough time to check his rounds. The metal clang coincided with the snap of his gun, and as though practiced, their heads happened to turn to each other in unison. 

“Let’s keep going.”

The library awaited them at the end of the hall. A large table and its five chairs were placed in the center, and bookshelves packed with tomes stacked on the walls. A few books lay on the table, one of them open before a tucked in chair. 

One surely wouldn’t call that ‘subtle.’ Harry crossed the room to take a look, and James perused the bookshelves for once. As usual many were either ruined, uninteresting, or their spines blank. He slowly went along to the sound of pages flipping back and forth, then to Harry’s disappointed hum. 

“Just looks like someone was doing some light reading. Doesn’t seem to be anything in this.” But just to make sure, he returned to the page he’d started at, and got a good scare when a squeak came from seemingly nowhere. James looked over his shoulder, pivoted, and bent to look under the table when his flashlight caught movement. Harry noticed and mimicked him, chuckling at what was hiding underneath. 

“Well, hey there little buddy,” he cooed to the shadowy blob of a child. “Whatcha doin’ down there?” Together they watched the harmless little thing spin in confused circles, apparently disoriented by being discovered, then quickly scuttled to the door. Harry straightened out to watch it go, then pursed his lips. “I think we should follow it,” he said, already giving chase. James obeyed. 

It was a speedy shadow. Both knew that when Harry had first met one that it wanted nothing to do with him, and that hadn’t changed. The thing squeaked along, stumbled a couple of times, and immediately got up to continue to flee; yet when it attempted the stairs, its little feet were no match for them in its state of panic, and down the shadow child tumbled to the landing. Being in such a hurry, it failed to learn from the first experience when it got up and went rolling once more to the ground floor. 

Perhaps it could be a bit cruel that Harry got a laugh out of it, but James himself even had a chuckle. The veteran shot him a sidelong grin, getting to see the personal fight to restrain the smile on his pale face. “Comedic gold,” was all he said to James, and looked away before that smile won. 

The pursuit ended in the second classroom. They set foot just soon enough to see the ghost run headfirst into a wall of cubby lockers at the back of the classroom, topple over, and disappear. Harry meandered to the spot, studying the dusty floor, then the rows of short columns of potential. “Well, thanks for the lead, little buddy,” he thanked the air. “That helps us out a lot.”

James hung back to supervise Harry set to work finding the golden ticket. One opened at last, and to Harry’s dismay, was located on the floor. There was a substantial amount of fatherly groaning as he got down on his knees to get a peek. Reaching in, he extracted the grand prize of a large, thin, floppy yellow book that turned him solemn, and a lanyard that sported a single brass key. 

Sitting back on his heels, Harry pushed the corner of his mouth down in his cheek. He gave no explanation yet, opening the dingy cover to gaze at the first page within. James waited, somewhat impatiently; yes, he understood that Midwich, like a slew of the other locations they’d traipsed about already and those that had yet to come, held a lot of importance. That said, it was still annoying to have to stand by while Harry took these little trips down memory lane. 

Harry knew he couldn’t sit there long. At the behest of his knees, he planted the pipe into the floor to assist himself to his feet. A soft whoosh of air and a bit of tugging at his clothes later, Harry held the book and lanyard up at James. “Cheryl’s sketchbook,” he said bluntly. Then he flipped it, holding it to his chest to show the printed tag declaring it as a sketchbook indeed, and a drawing on the cover in red crayon of a person with bulging oval eyes, misaligned pupils, and a dumb smile. “Look. It’s me. Uncanny, wouldn’t you say?”

That was too much to suppress a snorted laugh from James. He smirked at the drawing and compared it to its subject. “Yeah. It’s like looking at a photograph.”

His humor rejuvenated a smile on Harry. “She was a protegé, huh? I was gonna send her to an art school and watch her surpass Michaelangelo by ten miles.”

“Well, it seems she had a natural talent.”

“Oh yeah.” Harry turned it to look again. “Too bad it didn’t pass on to Heather. What a waste.”

James couldn’t tell how much of that was in jest. It felt strange. “Yeah? Did Heather not make up for it?”

The sound he made was somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “Eh, well.. she’ll kick your ass in soccer but other than that, no; not artistically, if that’s what you mean. No, Heather can’t draw a stick figure, much less a stick, but I’ve had good reason to believe she’s joined a teenage Fight Club, and she’s on a winning streak.”

Harry gave James a big, proud smile. “That’s my girl!” The resident nodded a little, taking the offered sketchbook for his own inspection. With that out of his hold, Harry began to whip the lanyard back and forth around his wrist. James nodded upwards at Harry’s plaything. “What’s that to?”

“Dunno!” he chirped, still swinging it. “Doesn’t have a tag, so beat me with a stick.” 

James grunted and turned a page. “Nah. I’d beat you with something that wouldn’t break so easily.”

He glanced to his right when the dirty pipe gently bumped his hand. 

“Here ya go.”

“Yeah, I was planning more along those lines. I’ll do it later.”

“I’ll put it on the ‘honey-do’ list. Just don’t forget.”

“Mm.” His brows creased. James flicked the previous page to the front, then back, then went to the third; then backtracked twice again. “There’s some weird pictures in here.”

“How weird?” Harry asked, moving to his side to have a gander. “I didn’t think Cheryl drew too much in here. Or, not that I remember. From last time.”

“Don’t make that a habit,” he muttered. 

“Doing my best.”

Drawn as sloppily as one would expect from a child was the depiction of two girls holding hands. One had yellow hair and the other brown; their blue outfits matched and they were smiling in front of a church. There was another stick figure by the church wearing a black dress and an angry frown, her black hair sticking out every which way. One more smaller child was positioned by her, teeny tiny and obscured by tall grass. The sun was quartered at the corner, big and yellow, and the sky scribbled blue. 

Along the bottom of the piece read,  _ ‘Me and My best Friend —— and Mommy doesn’t Like her. We like to —- and —- games by the ——.’  _ A red arrow pointed to the edge of the page and overturning it revealed a more disturbing scene.

The entire surface was covered in frantic scribbles of orange, red, and black. It looked as though it was to hide something underneath it all, barely discernible through the mess, but it had been a vertical and rectangular mass of black. Turning to the next page fix showed the same two children, now wearing frowns; the woman was larger, hair wilder, and far more angry than before; the littlest nowhere to be seen. Rather, a question mark as small as she had been in the first picture was off at the edge of this drawing. 

They appeared to be in a room. Brown had been used as a background and grey made a table between the girls and the woman. Yellow and orange depicted a fire on the table. And again, the piece bore a title beneath it all, reading:  _ ‘We dont like Study time anymore.’ _

Harry pensively tapped his bludgeon on his calf. He scanned the drawing, pursed his lips, and furrowed his brow. 

“Hm. Yeah, that’s.. that sure is.. weird.”

“Yep.”

Harry took it back and shuffled behind James to store it away. “Well, I guess it’s nice to have that sketchbook back,” he remarked, trying not to sound as disillusioned as he felt, “though I kinda wish no one else had gotten to it.” 

James looked at him after he signaled ‘all good’ with a few pats on the bag. There had to be something he could say to Harry about it; his tongue felt like it had words, yet held no coherency. So without them, he instead took interest in the flat cord dangling in Harry’s fist. He nodded at it, indicating it further by tipping his shotgun up. “Guess that’s from a teacher.”

Harry lifted his hand, looping the long floppy band around his finger for better display on his open palm. “Yeah, it’s pretty standard for..” 

His voice trailed off a cliff. Truly seeing it for the first time, the healthy color in Harry’s face drained to a sickly pallor. The lanyard was greyed by filth, of course, but the musical notes printed in black against white were still discernible. He shot his eyes to the loop about his finger, which partially hid a name written in marker that bled into a material that wasn’t meant to keep it legible. 

Carefully taking it into both hands and stretching the strip taut displayed a name that made his hands begin to gently quake:

** _Jodi Mason_ **

Harry’s lips parted, and his lungs pulled a short, feeble inhale. He blinked a rapidly a couple times, fighting back the sting in his eyes, and cheeks hot despite them having run pale. James was stone still next to him, electricity buzzing in his chest; that name unquestionably belonged to the wife that Harry had never talked about. Now she had a name on a teacher’s key string, and the implications were extraordinary. The air surrounding them became as dense and dry as cotton. 

It took decades for Harry to react. 

He reverently fingered the lanyard much like a devoted lover strokes their sweetheart’s face. The next breath was fast, hitched, and was chased by an audible swallow. “This is Jodi’s,” he mumbled, stating the glaring obvious to a man who wouldn’t dare make any joke of it. “She was a music teacher. At an elementary school.”

Harry tilted his head as a broken heart lined a sorrowful frown on his worn down features. “God,” he hatefully whispered. “Silent Hill really is pulling out all the stops lately. Jesus, fuck.. this is just..” Cutting himself off, he drew his lips inward to scowl, then shook his head. “Unreal.” 

He wrapped the lanyard even tighter around his hand. “Alright, then. We found the locker, and the key to the music room. Let’s go see what she’s got for us in there.”

They went upstairs. 


	34. Please Rise For The School Anthem

Harry opened the door to the music room. 

The grand piano was where, and as, he’d left it. He tried to extract the key from the lock to no avail. His fingers slid away from the lanyard that bore identical resemblance to the one his long ago love carried with pride, and a memento unfortunately lost in moves. Perhaps it was fitting that he wouldn’t be wandering home with it, since it wasn’t the original, and likely didn’t even exist. Yes, like most things known and dear in this town, it was simply another pawn conjured for his torment. Harry made peace with it, and approached the instrument.

James didn’t feel right being in this room. It was small and inhabited by invisible, unblinking eyes that crowded every inch of space and stared at him as though he were a bug in a jar. The malice was thick, and if he hadn’t been so used to Silent Hill’s spirited personality, it would’ve sent him running right out of the school. 

He slid his hand into his pocket and hung back by the door to observe.

The piano keys were yellowed from exposure, age, and puddles of blood - of which was still fresh after seventeen years - that had oddly expanded. It stretched nearly from the lowest A to the highest C, and even glistened on the black eharmonics. Harry reached out for the middle C, then retracted his hand. He clenched his fingers to a fist, mustered his courage, and pressed the ivory. 

It was stuck. 

He dipped his fingertips in crimson as they crawled an eastbound scale across the keyboard of unplayable notes. Not one key gave way until a high A. It was an unexpectedly powerful ting, as though he’d pulled the rope in a bell tower. Harry, refusing to let the pipe out of his left hand, awkwardly stepped his fingers over the keys on the western side. Whimsy decided to include the raised black ones, and found a working string in a C flat as well as a low, white D.

A second test of the right eharmonics gave him an F flat, and that was all. 

His arm returned to his side, and didn’t bother to wipe his fingers off.

Together they stared at the piano. The four playable notes were chilling. They acted as ghosts antiquated and forgotten, and whose disembodied voices cried when they sang. 

Harry studied the piano more intently. A blind and deaf man could tell this was a riddle. It was supposed to be played, but how was its mystery; what was it missing? He leaned in to look for a hint, scanning all the nothing there was to see from the front. So he began to canvass it more thoroughly, walking around and looking into the open, displayed interior, but there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary there either. Uttering a pensive hum, he backtracked to the front, and thanks to the flashlight clipped to his jacket, spotted something glinting on the seat of the chair. 

Upon the cushion lay a couple plastic tokens. He retrieved and thumbed them in his palm. They were yellow and red, and transparent under his light. Harry deflated his lungs and turned to James. 

“Wonder what these are for.”

James drew his lips into a line. There was nothing to say that came to mind; he couldn’t even take the time to shrug. The veteran jumbled the tokens in his palm, then put them in his pocket for safekeeping. “So there’s something we’re going to have to look for to spend..”

A theoretical lightbulb popped on over his head. He fetched the fortune teller out of his jacket and reread until he tapped his thumb over a passage. James noticed his bloody fingerprints tainting the paper. Harry didn’t. “Treat box. You can open the treat box at one o’clock. Hey, James, you got the time?”

Harry stuffed the paper back in its home and threw his guardian a smile as he passed. James tracked him with his eyes, aloof as can be, and followed the leader.

The courtyard was quaint. From their lookout on the second floor, it’d managed to sell itself as a bigger space. On the ground, in the fog and snow, it strangely felt liminal. No matter what it was, the clock tower was their target, and it was easily found. 

Standing at the base of the stone colossus, they gazed into the grey heavens at the round clock face. The fog was conveniently thin and the snow light, providing them with easy viewing of the suspended time. 

That said, there was a small problem with the reading. The riddle had two specific hours: 11:30 and 1:00. The hands high above told 2:25. 

Harry rapped his faithful steel on his leg, as he was wont to do when he was thinking, or, as James had come to learn, when he was nervous. In this instance, it was done in contemplation. He rubbed the plastic coins against each other in his pocket, and lowered his head to eye the doors. Then, he discovered a discrepancy.

“The medallions are gone.”

James watched him brush an empty stone pocket. “Hm.” Harry’s eyes darted back and forth between the bare settings. “Did I write about this? Did I put down the solution? I remember there were these big medallions I had to hunt down and put in here.”

The wrinkles on his brow were hard. “Uh.. you didn’t say much at all. Remember?”

Harry tossed a tired look back at him. “Could you double check it, please?” 

Off the backpack went, and James knelt to get out the sacred text and flip through. Harry inspected the plaques to fill the time. 

“The only thing about the clocktower is this. Like I’d said.”

Harry leaned in at the page bearing ‘CLOCKTOWER’ underlined twice. Huffing impatiently at his past self, he clicked his tongue and went back to pondering. “Fuck. Whoever wrote that was an idiot not to elaborate.”

James answered by simply zipping up their storage and oriented it over his shoulders whilst getting to his feet. The veteran picked at the center of one of the pockets, tickling his companion’s interest.

“What is it?”

“A little cut. Like a slot.” Pouting thoughtfully, the older of the two entertained the conundrum to himself as he re-homed his hand in his jacket. He looked up, then down, and back up where his eyes stuck, fiddling still with the tokens. 

“A Golden Sun and A Silver Moon,” he mused aloud. “There were two medallions: gold and silver. Obviously. So without those, I wonder how fucked—”

His hand froze. Snapping his head down, he withdrew the pieces and studied them in his palm. 

“Hey. Is there another slot on that side?”

James looked. “No.”

Harry scrunched his face for a long moment. He moved the chips around, stacking and separating them under his thumb. “Red and yellow make orange,” he murmured to himself. James observed his charge going from plaque, to trying the doors, to the other plaque. 

This was taking up a lot of time, and there was jack all he could do about it. James sneered to himself. Well, he supposed, it was as good a time as any, then, to practice his patience. He waited. And waited. 

James hated waiting. 

“A Golden Sun and A Silver Moon,” Harry announced, absently pointing at each as they were named. “And A Golden Sun has the slot. So. I’m gonna gamble, and I don’t do it often because I’m pretty bad at it, and put this one..” He approached the placement for the sun, and slid the yellow token in. “.. here.”

It clinked mechanically just as a coin does in a slot machine. He took a few steps back and looked skyward with James. For a good beat he worried he’d wasted their clue. Harry inhaled in preparation for a sigh, then held it in his lungs as the hands jerked into motion.

They went backwards. 2:25 became 2:45, 2:57, and came to rest at 1:00. 

The survivors were rightfully perplexed. 

“Oh.”

“.. hm.”

“Well. Alright, then.”

Harry exaggerated a shrug at James, who returned one much more sedate, and they exited the courtyard together to locate the so-called treat box. 

They visited every open room, from reception to bathrooms, classrooms and library. The one small corridor beside the library was shut off to them; Harry wagered the science room was there, if memory served. Alas, they’d been to all those places before and again and turned up without a treasure chest to plunder. 

Unfortunately, an alas oftentimes came with an alack: the duo returned to the music room stumped and empty-handed. 

James thought the air had gotten heavier in there, and the hostile attitude of the room felt like it appreciated him even less the second time around. To say it was distracting was a light way of putting it, for its repressive assault on him doused his head in soured milk. It claimed a small victory in his choice to hover by the door as he’d done prior, but it wasn’t going to shove him out like it seemed to truly want. 

Or perhaps he was simply projecting; it wasn’t as though he exactly  _ wanted _ to be in there. 

In being too busy dissecting the indoor weather, James lost his awareness to the immediate world around him until Harry spoke. 

“Hey. This isn’t the same piano.”

He forced his eyes to settle on the instrument planted in the middle of the room. No, it most certainly was not the same piano at all. The grand had been swapped out to a much smaller, vertical, and compact type known as a console, treated by a weathered grey finish instead of shiny black. It was a polar opposite to the elegant instrument that had been there before - and kind of dingy, in James’s opinion. 

Yet despite that blasé first impression, there was a rotten underlining to it, too: it reminded him of  _ her. _

When Harry found the lanyard and revealed that crucial tidbit about his wife, James had been excited to fish in the lake of possibilities. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, however, what her career as a music teacher really entailed. A grand piano meant nothing to him, and although this smaller piano was not the same model he’d found at the estate sale and eagerly lugged home to fulfill his wife’s fantasies as a concert pianist, it was an unwelcome shove into a freezing cave of bygone days. 

This instrument didn’t belong to him or Mary, but that little detail didn’t throw away the hammer of guilt and regret that struck his laughable excuse for a heart. 

The air spoiled further. 

Of course, it wasn’t just James that was experiencing a visceral reaction to the substitute piano. Harry lingered a few steps away from it like it was poison. His shoulders rose and fell with the deep breaths he used to soothe himself, and the steel in his hand beat a nervous frenzy on his leg. Like James, it reminded him of a woman he loved and her talented hands filling a house with beauty and joy. Unlike James, this piano eviscerated him from head to toe for the main reason that it was identical to the one Jodi had worshipped every day.

Harry’s feet took him closer. His eyes naturally searched the top of the keybed and forced the sticky gunk down his throat. Yes, it was the very same piano plucked straight from his memories, as confirmed by the faded marker letters that titled the white keys where the blood didn’t reach.

The Escobar family heirloom didn’t belong here. Harry was upset that his memories had been looted to recreate a thing so sacred to him, and yet, this didn’t breach a hill of anger he was surely capable of. This brilliant replica piano was, of course, just that: a fake. Although knowing the original was safe at home and this one was being used as a means of harm, just like the lanyard, the aged widower felt some unexpected comfort in seeing it. A passing thought had to wonder if Silent Hill was peeved any that the trick hadn’t brought him crumpling to the floor.

Some gags just didn’t hit the mark, and here was one of them. 

He looked down. Even the compartment bench had been manifested in place of the single chair. It was empty. Harry swiveled in place, taking a lazy survey of the floor, when the fact finally registered that the piano, being half the size than the grand it had once been, boasted a large amount of space behind it. Patting the lid, he murmured, “Hiya, honey,” and leaned around to look. 

James stretched his neck side to side as he watched his charge bend down to pick something up, then put that something on the piano. It was a brightly colored box whose hot pink body and neon yellow lid were only visible through the crevices where the smorgasbord of stickers didn’t plaster. Children had probably once contributed more than half of those stickers to flex their artistic whims, and had adored its loud mess. 

Their creative growth and youthful eccentrics aside, the thing was goddamn hideous. It strained James’s eyes in their harsh white lights even from way back where he stood at the door. It made him wonder if Harry would suffer from an annoying imprint on his vision from being so close. James averted his eyes to save himself from that fate. 

Meanwhile, Harry slowly spun the box in place. If he’d known what sort of professional, artistically-educated judgments James had been making, he honestly would’ve agreed. The prize box had been ugly in his mind before, and though still ugly now, its fond memories made it charming. He solemnly admired another familiar item his wife had cared for, and another one he had likewise lost long ago. Harry completed the circle by turning its face to him, where a vertical slit awaited currency. 

“Now ain’t this a treat box, indeed. Y’know, Jodi misplaced this awhile back, silly girl, and I thought it’d grown legs and wandered right off, cuz we couldn’t find it anywhere. So.. one’s gotta wonder who found it and put it back. What a mystery. What a total mystery.”

James could imagine how the dry sarcasm reflected on Harry’s face. Nice as all these passive-aggressive trinkets Silent Hill recreated for them to reflect upon, the room felt like it was closing in on him by the minute, and he wished the patriarch would  _ hurry up _ so they could get  _ out _ of there. This was yet another thing that was drawing on for too long, and in danger of becoming a behavior that could turn into a habit. 

Not only that, but the moldy stench was piling onto his headache and tying a sickly rope from throat to stomach. His face twinged from a roll of nausea. Luckily and to his relief, the survivor had grown a backbone. He watched Harry rummage in his pocket and drop the red token into the box.

It clicked and popped itself ajar. Harry righted his stance, loosely shook out his arms, and opened it to claim the reward.

And.. papers. How anti-climatic. 

James curled his lip as they were unfolded and shuffled in Harry’s hands. Harry snapped the papers to get the creases temporarily flat, the pop acting like gunfire in James’s skull. Whatever was on them made him shake his head. 

He wanted to go over, rip the papers from his hands, and get a look for himself so they could advance. Between the room trying to blow his head open and Harry’s emotional lollygagging, James was close to losing his fucking mind. One would  _ think _ Harry would want to spend as little time as possible in Midwich, but it wasn’t like his track record for keeping promises about taking quick trips had a gold star reputation. Harry complained an  _ awful _ lot about hating Silent Hill and wanting to get out, then in the same breath, turned around and pulled drawn-out bullshit like this.

James spoke as calmly as his agitation would allow, though he was hard pressed to mask all the bite. “What is it?”

“Well, we’ve got our school map,” responded tiredness and falsified pep. “And we’ve got sheet music.”

“What for?”

A repeat lull separated query from reply while Harry folded up the double-sided map and stuffed it in his overpopulated inner jacket pocket with all the other important documents.

Harry tested the keyboard and found it to be in full working order. Placing the steel rod atop the piano with the treat box, he pulled out the bench and sat down. He tried to smooth the sheets out one more time, reversing the creases under the glide of his thumb, then scattered the music in order on the rack. 

James was still waiting. Before he opened his mouth to ask again, Harry was ready to answer. 

“ _ Gymnopedie N _ o. _ 1 _ . By Erik Satie.” 

The name rang a bell that stung the front of his brain. “Does it mean something?”

“Oh yeah. It means a lot.”

“Like what?”

Harry clenched, then stretched his hovering fingers over the keys. “Like Jodi’s favorite.” He tested the pedals underfoot and prepared for things he couldn’t anticipate. “I played this one back at the hotel. You’ll remember.”

His hands sank the blood-slicked keys and brought the piano to life. 

James wrinkled his forehead as the somber, delicate notes penetrated the atmosphere. Harry was right: he  _ did _ remember it. When he’d played it, it had been the first time he’d heard music in as many years. The piece - the peace - back then had made the moment unforgettable. He liked it. 

It also pulsated through his skull like an oversized brass bong making love to a weekend bender’s Monday morning hangover. James swayed in place - and not from being pleasantly overcome by the composition. He fluttered his eyelids to keep trickles of water from blinding his eyes, then tried to wipe them clear with the back of his hand. It didn’t help, because it never did, so he squeezed them shut. 

Harry didn’t need the sheet music to play Satie’s masterpiece, for the simple fact being that he couldn’t read it. In many unsuccessful times in the past, he’d tried to correlate the notes he knew to the ones printed on staves, and it just didn’t ever sink in. That was fine with him. They were pretty, so they became decoration and immersion for playing pretend, and he liked it that way. 

Meanwhile, what should have been bewitching and soulful seemed to putrefy as it filled the entire school from corner to wicked corner. 

James could barely stand. Lead fresh from a blacksmith’s furnace replaced his marrows and his turned his muscles into jagged rock. He dragged a haggard breath and, as though that had been its cue, the loudspeakers crackled like shattering bones throughout the school. 

Harry jerked his head up, his hands interrupted just as he reached for the high notes. Impossibly, beyond the static, the music seamlessly picked up right from where he left off; like his fingers had never left the keyboard. His eye caught movement and he looked down to find a spirit’s hands twinkling those keys in his stead like a player piano. But before he could make sense of it, an angry, amplified buzzing akin to a swarm of vindictive wasps filled the air, and he winced hard, clapping his hands over his ears. 

Amidst the torture that his palms barely helped muffle, he twisted and shot his eyes back to James. A separate panic, this one dedicated to the wellbeing of a man not doing at all well, got Harry hastily to his feet. The dash overturned the bench and caused himself to trip over its leg - but he didn’t go down. However useless it was to yell for James over the din he did it anyway, getting to him in the nick of time before his body collapsed to the dirty floor.

He struggled to keep the conduit’s dead-weighted, rag doll body upright. Harry screamed fearfully into his companion’s face, who was gaping like a fish, whose eyes were as enormous as one too, and whose hands frantically clawed for his life at his leather-clad arms. The veteran thrust James against the wall to aid his cause in keeping him vertical, but his legs were no better than jelly. James was writhing, choking for air that was actively rejected by his lungs, and from the streams of water that poured into his open mouth. 

Baring his teeth, Harry manipulated him to the floor and laid him tilted downwards on his left side, holding him firmly in place. Louder and louder climbed the deafening electrical mayhem and with it, something incongruous that had snuck itself into the belligerent scramble. These noises seemed to hate each other and trapped Harry in their crossfire as they brawled. The resulting barbarous opera disoriented him, and made his head throb like a fresh, open wound. 

Then it all crescendoed into the raw horn he heard in his restless dreams.

Harry was really struggling with James; his last-ditch survival instincts had kicked in and were trying to fight him off. The veteran pinned him with all his might, hiking his shoulders in vain attempt to protect eardrums close to bursting, his head ready to split open, and then—

Horror widened his tormented eyes as the floor cruelly sheared its vinyl like flesh ripped from its meat. The beginning emergence of Harry’s greatest fears seemed to trigger a violent seizure in James’s helpless body, catching him off guard. He straddled the town’s living power source and clamped his soaked, trembling legs between his dense thighs, while derelict iron grating crawled under them as swiftly as a fire eats grass.

Harry’s attention was being yanked on all sides. James convulsed and turned blue under him; the trumpet called to arms; the drab walls peeled like scorched paper to give way to slabs of corroded steel swathed in bloody oxidation. Then, because it was not over yet, the room had a change of heart, deciding to again shed sections newly exposed grate and metal like fabric torn, giving Harry a glimpse into a place he’d much rather be. 

In these scattered tears, dark hardwood revealed itself on the floor, and smoky blue paint on the walls. He shot a terrorized glanced to his left. Beneath the piano spread an abstract blaze of a large patterned rug, its edges fringed by hints of hardwood, stranding it on its very own personal island. Flicking his eyes up at the wall behind the piano, he witnessed the iron shave itself from top to bottom in a wide fragment, uncovering the same paint and a halved, framed picture that his subconscious recognized. 

Clangs and burring demanded him to look over his shoulder. The industrial transformation surged through the corridor, reconstructing the normal world into a malignant domain as the siren crowed. Midwich Elementary School, just moments ago a ghostly institution, gave way to a cage of nightmares that Harry had never truly left - and never would. 

When all became the true personification of hell’s deepest chambers, the wailing died out and took the static with it. Concurrently, beneath Harry’s anchor, the conduit’s seizure also waned to an end. Harry wheezed and, realizing his hearing had suddenly cleared without repercussion, raised his eyes to the metal ceiling overhead. Without the tumult, the haunted, beloved masterpiece of  _ Gymnopedie No. 1 _ \- which had been present all along - resurfaced alone at last. 

In a place unworthy of it, the intangible memory echoed like a Lord’s psalm throughout an empty cathedral. Harry’s lips parted as the tender notes that had once brought him a heaven of happiness and peace became a theme of mourning and pity for the two lost souls stranded in their acrid purgatory. It tapered to a fade as it drew to its end, as it was composed to do, the last echoing chords bidding the bereaved widowers a final, and forever, farewell. 


	35. First Period Home Room

_ The Otherworld_. 

A dry gasp snapped his attention down to the conduit beneath him. James lay soaked, limp, and lifeless between his legs, the thinning streams dripping through the metal, diamond-shaped floor into the bottomless deep. Harry leaned to the side to look into his face, its blue and purple beginning to fade, and pushed his wet, sandy hair out of his slatted eyes.

“James.” He shook his shoulder. James’s gulps for air were labored. “Hey, okay, deep breaths, you’re okay,” soothed the caretaker, dismounting and rolling him onto his back. Grabbing the military jacket lapels together in one fist, he pulled James up and shoved at the backpack for him to lean against, but quickly found that it was not going to work in their favor if it was still on his shoulders. James latched frightfully onto his arms, sucking in harsh, needy breaths as he tried to dig his heels into the floor to better sit up. 

“Easy, easy, I’m trying to get the backpack off, okay? Let go, one hand at a time.” He had to pry James’s hand off his arm, throw it down, and awkwardly grapple to remove one strap. The second wasn’t much easier with the man’s insistent clutching at him, but after he succeeded with the pack, Harry again hoisted him up, jammed the drenched backpack under his spine, then tenderly settled him against it. 

“There. Slow it down. Slow breaths, James. C’mon, you already went through some shit, don’t hyperventilate on me, okay? I don’t have a paper bag for it. Slow. One.. two. One.. two..” 

He coached him through it, letting him hold onto his arms while keeping him a bit more upright by the way of his jacket. Harry calmly continued to talk as James’s face drained to its normal deathly white, finally working himself down to an even breathing pattern. 

His strength weakened on Harry’s arms. The patriarch sat back on his feet, holding James at arm’s length. He gently let him go when James’s arms fell away. Rubbing his black-clad thighs, Harry grimly observed the phenomena of the conduit’s hair and clothes drying themselves out, then hissed sharply and shot up his hand from his slacks. 

“Ouch! Fuck. Augh, that’s right,” he muttered, gingerly tugging at the cut fabric. “Those little.. god dammit.”

James blinked his weighted eyes to him, then dropped them to his thigh. “Oh, yeah.” 

“Yeah. I was happy to forget about that.” A patch of the transformed grate nearby caught his glance, and he chose to studiously ignore it for as long as he could. Harry wasn’t ready to face whatever had become of the room. He returned immediate focus to James. “How’re you feeling?”

James looked like he’d been flattened by a cement truck then tossed onto the train tracks in the path of a locomotive charging at full speed ahead to finish the job. He sounded just as such, too. “Fine.”

“Yeah. You look like you had a good day at the spa.”

“Yeah.”

“Well worth the whole package, mud bath and steam room and full body massage and all, huh?”

“Yeah.”

The smile Harry tried to give him didn’t have all the heart it usually had. James’s eyes were unable to stay fixed on Harry, and so fell shut. Harry let his face reflect his guilt and despair now that the other didn’t have to see it. A lengthy pause followed, but Harry couldn’t keep silent for long. 

“You scared the hell out of me, man. That was horrible. I seriously thought I was going to lose you. I know it’s not your fault,” he added in response to the huff, annoyed wince. “But that was some horrible.. _ horrible _ shit.”

“.. yeah.”

“What _ was _ that?” he ventured, trying to shift his weight on increasingly numbing legs. “That was like.. shit, like what happened back at the strip club. The, uh.. uhm..” Harry snapped his fingers as he struggled to recall the words. “Uhh, uhhh..”

“The squ—“

“The squeeze! Yeah.” It instantly registered as that whole explanation came flooding back. His shoulders slumped. “Oh, shit..” Harry flopped to the side, stiffly unfolding his legs and stretching one out, the other bent, and supported himself back on his arms. He stared into his lap. “Fuck. That hasn’t happened in awhile.” Glancing at James, he gave him a good analyzing, then ended it with a quiet, defeated sigh. “I guess you were due for it at some point.”

He grunted. 

Harry reprised the study, then asked, “Were you.. how conscious were you for that? I think you had a seizure.”

James tried to move his limbs, cringing hard. Nope, not yet. “All of it, I think.”

_ “All _ of it? Jesus Christ!”

Discomfort curled James’s lip as he tried to force his rigid body into a more tolerable position. There wasn’t one. “Yeah. It was great.”

“Even when you were seizing?”

Harry was shot an icy scowl. _ “All _ of it.” He took him by his word and looked down. 

“Damn. That’s.. horrible. I’m so sorry, James.”

James wasn’t going to find a spit’s worth respite, so he sighed hard and took his first look around the room. Astounded by what he saw, his lips parted at the wildly obscure atmosphere; it was like they were in two different rooms at once. Though he didn’t understand why he thought so, to him it looked like a glitch of some kind - like the Otherworld couldn’t decide what to do. But as he digested it, he remembered how the music room had been prior, and these rogue shards did not reflect where they had previously become acquainted. 

At least it didn’t reek like sewage in here anymore. Instead, the air carried the smell of flowers, cinnamon, a steel factory, and industrial grease. The mixture was enough to unsettle his stomach again, although in this instance, foreboding had also joined the party. There wasn’t much to say here, except:

“What the hell?”

As he recovered more of his body and cognizance, James was able to move his sore arms, and used one to better prop himself up from the backpack. From there he did a second review of the room, picking out more details, and also looking out into the oddly lit, unrecognizable hallway. A few minutes must’ve passed until he realized Harry hadn’t said a word. James looked over and found him spacing out, staring at his legs. 

He felt intrusive. The air once again had a stifling edge, but not in the same way as it was before. This type sat more on the “awkwardly uncomfortable” side of the scale. James didn’t know what to say, so nothing was said. 

Harry saved him from the task and spoke. “This place is a mess.” James looked over to see his ward lifting his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A repeat look got cast around. “Is this the Otherworld?”

“Yes, and I don’t know,” he strained as he hefted himself to his feet. Brushing off his clothes, he glanced down at James, then brought the bench back to standing on its four legs. He situated it where it belonged at the piano, putting its position with two legs on the carpet, and two on the pockmarked iron. The rug was studied by both. Harry sighed the weight of the world. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you, James: I’ve never been so fucking tired.” His face scrunched hard as he pushed his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them deep into the wrinkled sockets. “This is going to cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars of therapy when I get home.. as if I haven’t sunk that much money into it already.”

Harry’s hand dropped to his thigh with a dull slap. He looked blearily down at the tentatively inquisitive civilian. “Seriously. I should probably get an accountant. They would _ love _ me.”

James, seemingly forever lost for words, returned a meager shrug. One more exhale came from the widower before he held out his hand to him. “How’re you feeling? Can you stand?”

Testing his legs, James found his joints aching and feeling swollen, but his strength recovered enough to accept the help up. His balance wavered with a rush of dizziness, but Harry’s grip on his arms kept him steady until it passed. “Take it easy,” he was quietly advised. “Get yourself back together before you do anything else, alright? Leave the bag alone.”

That was advice he was going to take. James stood in place to rework himself, briefly tracking Harry under his stare. The Otherworld quickly stole his interest, and he flicked his eyes around the dungeon. 

Pieces of a room that held a manner of warmth was also sullied by cruel breaks of industrial chaos. Their flashlights managed to distort that peculiar congeniality as well, giving impressions of an eerie, bewitching tomb. It was as homey as it was daunting, and clearly, meant something special to Harry. 

He watched him run his fingers over the blue wall behind the piano. James noticed the torn picture for the first time, having been too low to see it before. The coned beam showed what was coherent enough to know it was a woman in the broken frame, despite her visage being damaged by brown and red: the type that was typical of abandonment and exposed to the elements and time.

Harry looked lost and bereaved when he slowly pivoted around. He dug the heel of his palm into his eye again as his head drooped. There weren’t any tears to shed; he simply exuded utter exhaustion from within his core. It felt different in James’s empty reserves. In fact... it felt damningly, uncomfortably familiar; nearly too much to withstand.

It was hateful towards oneself; guiltier than any sin. Regret for the things he’d done; choosing to wallow in sorrow. Rejecting help; running away. Irreparable loss; mistakes that could have been remedied if he hadn’t been so selfish. 

Yes: James was all too familiar with that self-imposed, isolated prisoner’s cell. 

His reserves began to refill, courtesy of a weathered father, and a widower forever in mourning. Harry resented himself, and thus fed him the sadistic energy he needed. It was rejuvenating. 

He wished it didn’t have to be like this. 

Dropping his hand, Harry gazed around the room, then motioned to it all. 

“This.. is Jodi’s room,” he explained. “Everything. That isn’t the Otherworld, that is. Can you fucking believe this shit. I can’t.” A breath was released. “I don’t know _ what _ Silent Hill’s obsession with fucking around in my head is about. It’s been _ real _ determined to fuck with me lately, and I’ve had it. I’m up to **here** with its shit.”

James fixed his ward with a vaguely sorry look when his eyes fell upon him. “Has it been talking to you?” Harry asked. “Has it been saying anything to you at all?”

The shake of his head told him what he said before his tongue did, looking away. “No. It’s been quiet.”

“Great. _ And _ it needed a boost. I’m just..” Harry made a strained noise, more than just upset as he slowly spun in place again. “I’m fucked up! Between this and that absolutely _ terrifying _ way it put you through the wringer, I have absolutely fucking ** _had it_ ** with this shitty fucking ** _town! _ ** You win! You win, you fucking assholes! Are you fucking _ happy_, Silent Hill?!”

The depleted conduit uncomfortably watched Harry drag his hands hard over his hair and tensely link his fingers at the back of his head. He did look like he was on the brink of mental collapse.

In the meantime, while Harry agonized over things he couldn’t control, James meandered across the floor to inspect their new world. Just as it had been back at the hotel when it overtook his special place like a depraved cancer, the Otherworld mesmerized him. His footfalls clanked on the iron grate that was acting as the only saving grace from the endless dark, approaching a wall. 

The metal slab before him advertised pus yellow blotches beneath dried, blackened blood, fresh crimson on autumn rust, steel oxidized by streaks of water that had been dripping for ages and had, at one point long ago, ceased their flow - all of it, everything that caked and tarnished and staled - were things James found sickening, demented, and beautiful. 

Lifting his hand, he tentatively passed his fingers over the stains. Albeit still muddled and weak (and he figured he would be for a good while), he sensed a life within it; a connection to him. Perhaps ‘life’ was the wrong word for it, but he couldn’t think of anything else to call it. It buzzed with vitality; with warning; with suspicion._ ‘I can bite you,’ _ it said. _ ‘Keep your distance. I’m watching you.’ _

Whereas someone else would have taken that to heart and backed right off, James didn’t fear it. He languidly brushed his fingers over the solid wall, then traced the rotting fencing beside it like one would pet a wary, aggressive dog. And like one, it emitted a tremble of energy as a secondary warning: but it was all bark and no bite. 

James withdrew his touch, and wondered what it meant. 

During this, Harry soaked in the pieces of a life that had ended so long ago; one that he had to leave far behind when their Cheryl had died, too. He’d intended to raise their little girl in the same house the Masons had begun their family in, but that was before the tragedy of Silent Hill. The pain of severing Jodi from his life like that had felt crass, but he couldn’t exist in that house anymore. It made him sick: literally and figuratively. Saying goodbye to her beloved room had tortured him ever since the day he stood in the empty space that seemed to cry and plead for him to change his mind. 

For years, he couldn’t look at this shade of blue without bursting into tears. Seeing it now, he felt removed from it, and a little bit soothed. Its significance somehow dulled the pain and turned it into a fond, faraway memory. Perhaps Harry had finally learned to let go of Jodi’s room. Or, perhaps, seeing it here did the job for him. It didn’t matter, in the end. He’d let go. 

It was as relieving as it was sad. 

He looked down at the rug, automatically searching it for the red wine and gravy stains they couldn’t get out, a dinner interrupted by play: and there it was, to the right of the bench. Harry stretched his neck side to side and rolled his shoulders. Silent Hill’s attention to detail was extraordinary. It must’ve taken a good effort to recreate all this - which made him wonder if that was the reason it’d sucked James dry for it. If so, what was the point of that? A performance like that couldn’t’ve been its only goal here. There was something else it was gearing up for; there had to be. It wouldn’t be Silent Hill if there wasn’t. 

With that in mind, he drew his eyes up to James. The conduit was at an Otherworld wall, studying it like a museum piece. He got a bad feeling about it. Harry would like to blame his delicate mental state on it; after all, that episode had truly frightened him half to death. Harry’s head and heart were too shattered to try to piece together whatever the hell had happened. It didn’t matter right then; there was no way he could process it now. He knew it’d hit him later. 

That aside, James seemed to be treating the Otherworld with veneration. The bad feeling he had turned bitter and resentful. Albeit, like everything else, he’d just have to wait it out. His patience was a virtue that tended to pay off, after all. 

On the other hand, it’d be nice to be able to plow through and get right to the point every now and then.

_ But even if you forget everything else, you must remember this, Harry Mason: James Sunderland cannot _ ** _ever_ ** _ be trusted. _

He always loathed that reminder.

Looking down at the piano, he pressed featherlight on a white key high on the scale. It gave under his finger, proving it was still functional. Harry stared down at the depressed key, and recalled Jodi Mason, formerly Escobar, making a dream out of hammered strings. 

James startled and partially turned when the note cut through the silence like a freshly sharpened sword. The ping naturally petered to quiet. Harry stared at the indented key, picked up his finger with a flourish, and regarded James. 

“We have a map. I suggest we get out of here and take a look at it somewhere else.”

“Sure.”

“And I can give you a proper Otherworld tour. You’ll love it. There’s twists and turns and fun for the whole family.” Harry’s smile was cheerful, and fruitless. He was fooling no one. Crossing the floor, he took up the backpack by its strap - by its _ damp _shoulder strap. 

“Oh _ shit!” _ he exclaimed, falling to his knees. “The backpack is wet, everything could be fucked up! Shit, shit, _ shit _,” Harry grit, taking out some of his obvious aggression in unzipping it. 

James locked his jaw. They did not consider the deluge of his panic attack. He oversaw their most valuable assets frantically dug out and unceremoniously dropped at Harry’s side, soaked through. The memo pads (which he cared about the most) and sketchbook were distorted by water damage, gun coated in a wet sheen, and the survivors at a total loss. 

Harry sat back on his calves, and braced his weight on his knees. He let out a deep, haggard sigh. Everything that could be ruined, was ruined. James hung his shoulders, devastated and guilty over something he had no control over, but liable for all the same. Harry ran his hand hard over his hair, where it then held the back of his head. 

In their tense silence, the distant clang and hum of engines spinning fans went on.

What could be said? What could be done? Nothing, they both knew: absolutely nothing.

They were fucked. 

Slowly rubbing the nape of his neck, Harry fought to keep himself at bay. He was ready to cry, emotionally collapse, give Silent Hill the satisfaction it so clearly wanted; but he was profoundly stubborn to not let it win. It’d already had its fun a couple days ago with giving his psyche a good what-for. Today, it decided he’d had his rest and relaxation and upped the ante, defaming the memory of a woman he loved and rewrote their beloved song into a funeral procession. 

As if that wasn’t enough, why not top it all off with a good ol’ wring-the-battery-pack-on-two-legs as a grand finale? Because sure; why not. Silent Hill must’ve been starving. Harry didn’t know what to think of it, though it wasn’t like he could think about anything right now. 

What he did know was that having a breakdown wouldn’t solve anything. What’s done was done; that was that. Harry clenched his jaw so tight that his teeth felt like they could retract into his gums. He relegated his breaths, pasted the cracked pieces of himself back together with metaphorical stick glue, and began to refill the backpack. 

James wondered if he should say something, like ‘sorry,’ or.. he didn’t know what else. Talking, especially sympathy, was not his speciality. The veteran soon stood and handed it off to James. He accepted it without a word and pulled it on.

Harry procured his weapon from the top of the piano and passed James by, who then strolled after him. Pausing with Harry beyond the threshold, he reviewed the room along with the author, who had stopped to behold it one more time. There was a peculiar look on his face, and when he cast his eyes to the floor, his guardian did too. 

“You see that?”

He didn’t know what he was looking for. “See what?”

“Footsteps,” Harry indicated by pointing the pipe at them. From his jacket, he steered the flashlight back and forth across the floor. Footsteps made of glossy hardwood caught the light where they’d tread - yet another anomaly in the presence of pockmarked rust. They marked a path taken about the area and led to the boundary where Jodi’s disrespectful simulation met the real Otherworld. One footfall had abruptly broken at that border, dividing it into two; a boot heel of hardwood within the room, and no sight of it where they stood now. 

Harry reflected upon it for a moment. They appeared to have been tracked by only one person. He inquisitively stomped one foot the empty space above the halved impression. An instant imprint of flooring revealed itself. Frowning more, Harry tapped his foot in the middle of the border between the room and hall, the reverse of the one beside it. And just like it, it only affected the inside perimeter.

They stared at the paradox in silence. James, in the pursuit of knowledge, brought his boot down in a clear area beside the partial Harry had left. 

There was no change. 

“Hm.”

“That’s fun.” He saw James shrug in his peripheral vision. “Well, anyway. Let’s forget any of that happened and take a look at the map we got.” 

Turning his back to the debauched parody of his wife’s special place, Harry unsuccessfully rifled in his overstuffed pocket - then simply took out the whole mess to sift through. “Fuck me. I feel like a kangaroo.” Such an off-the-wall comment prompted a sidelong frown from James. It went unseen. “My work desk is neater than this, and that’s really saying something.”

Since his guardian lacked any motive for engaging in chitchat, Harry was left to organize with the Otherworld noise as accompaniment. A few wrong papers later, he’d found what he wanted and stuffed everything else back in his jacket. He held up the school map.

The map had transmuted. Preluding the traumatic event in the music room, it’d been as plain as a map should be, whereas smatters of brownish, rusty colors, untidily circled areas, drawn arrows, and some of its text was crossed out and rewritten in clunky penmanship had replaced the entire page. Its opposite side was much the same, although an arrow pointed lengthwise on the top brim above the science room, which was directed at ‘3B.’

Harry made that side his priority, examining it closely. “There’s our 3B,” he muttered to James, tapping the place with his thumb. “Now to figure out how to get there.”

Wedging the map back into the tight fit in his jacket, he eyed James staring around at the Otherworld in what seemed to be awe and reverence. Harry wasn’t so sure if he liked the way he was taking it all in. But, he tried to reason, this _ was _ the first time he really got to experience it. The sneak peek at the hotel would’ve likely enthralled him, too, if he hadn’t any aforesaid history with it.

“So? Whaddya think?”

James looked over. “About what?”

Harry gestured to their new landscape. “The Otherworld.”

He set his gaze ahead. It was _ breathtaking _. “It’s not what I expected. Not that I couldn’t really expect anything.”

“That’s for sure.”

“I didn’t know it’d completely change _ everything _,” he went on, surveying their surroundings. “It doesn’t even look like the school anymore.”

Harry idly swung, then shouldered the steel rod. “Technically, it isn’t. I guess. It’s kind of like the Upside Down, but worse.”

He glanced over. “The Upside Down?”

Harry shook his head, and the question, off. “Nevermind. Point is, is that things are gonna get a little confusing. Luckily, the school map seemed to reflect the change.”

“How’s that?”

“It was normal when I found it. I just looked at it again, and it’d changed to resemble the Otherworld. Still, it’s probably not as accurate as we’d want it to be; it’s kinda vague, which I’m sure was the point. But it’s enough to give us an idea of what’s around here.”

“.. mm.”

“Speaking of, how’re you feeling?” Harry asked, tilting his head. 

James half-heartedly sneered. “Okay. Sorta drained.”

“Guess that’s expected.” The conduit shrugged. “Guess it’s good too that you can heal up pretty fast.”

“Yeah. I’m still kinda sore.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, I imagine you’re gonna be feeling that for awhile.” Down came the pipe to be planted on the grate between his feet. The veteran then folded his hands over the hook and casually leaned into the would-be cane. “Okay. So we should find 3B, and if we’ve figured out anything about this place so far, we’re gonna need to go on a wild goose chase before we get there.” He idly rocked his weight on the rod as he mulled it over. “Sssooooo.. we’re looking for whatever will give us eleven-thirty on the clock, that four’s company but also a crowd riddle, and.. whatever else we need to pull back out to go over.” A partial snarl lifted his upper lip. “Whatever’s not too fucked up, that is.”

“Should we do that now?”

He pouted thoughtfully for a moment’s skip, then scoffed. “Tch, naaaah,” Harry decided, pushing off his gory baton and jumping it in his hand for a more useful grip. “Let’s fuck around for a bit and see what we can find, eh? It’ll get you accustomed to the Otherworld, and I’ll get to re-traumatize myself for the umpteenth time. Just for funsies.”

James shrugged his shoulder. “You’re the boss.”

“Heh.” Harry shot him a sideways grin. “Yeah, sure. And I’m ready to retire and hand it off to some spry young thing that’ll turn the company into something I’d always dreamed it’d become.”

He got a wary glance from James. “Oh?”

The patriarch stuck his hand in his pocket and slanted his head from side to side. “Oh, you’ll do just fine filling the role, James. I have full confidence in you.”

His voice went flat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry’s small smile faded, and in his profile, James briefly saw the deterioratiated, wounded old man that hid behind his brave countenance; the same one that had recently had its demoralizing spotlight. He didn’t like it - it was uncomfortable, to say the least. But Harry was Harry, and he predictably fought through the short bout of deep depression to pull a shaky, jovial facade back together. 

“I think we should see if we can hit up the boiler room first. Maybe run into a ghost or two. Say hi. I think that would be dandy.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

“Oh, James.. one day you’ll regret those words.”

He stepped into place at Harry’s side. Unbeknownst to the father - the widower - that led their mission, James had long regretted his words, and his involvement, since day one.

But, then again: James had never been given a choice in the matter, nor would he ever, so as long as Harry Mason walked the streets of Silent Hill.


	36. Do You Have A Hall Pass?

“Did you know that in _The Shining_,” Harry was enlightening James as they reached the door and pushed it open, “the hotel actually went up in flames at the end. The boiler exploded in the basement and boom! See ya later, Overlook Hotel. Oh, and spoiler alert, not that you care, Halloran lives. Kubrick made a hell of a movie, but in my opinion, he was still a schmuck. Stephen King hated him for what he did to it. It’s pretty understandable.” He looked at him. “It was hardly even the same story.”

James’s grunt came quite belated. “You’ve mentioned the Overlook blowing up before.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“That’d make sense. Can’t really help it, y’know? That place just delivered Overlook vibes in truckloads.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Harry hummed. “Yeah, you don’t seem like a reader. Or barely even a movie watcher.”

“Not really.”

“You gotta see _The_ _Shining_, James. I’ll put it on the list. It’s a _classic_. People are still buck wild for the movie, of course. Best of all, there’re conspiracy theorists crawling all over it. It’s because Kubrick had a reputation for deliberate attention to detail,” explained a man full of, in James’s opinion, useless information. “He was _anal_ about it. Everything he did had a purpose. Heh. There’s this photo of Kubrick arranging the Calumet cans in the pantry,” Harry went on, strolling towards the boiler. “People go nuts over it. ‘What’s it mean? What’s he trying to tell us?’ It’s almost pathetic. Oh, man. And let’s not even get _started_ on how he was allegedly trying to tell everyone that he helped fake the moon landing..”

James’s eyelids fluttered heavily under annoyance. He understood that Harry was more than just nervous, but really, he wished he’d find a better way to cope. The conduit mentally danced for the second time since arriving at Midwich with the idea of sewing Harry’s lips shut until the very same man rerouted his attention by pointing his steel into the corner.

“That’s where I first saw Alessa. She was just casually leaning back on the walI; I almost expected her to be nursing a cigarette. But she was no middle schooler,” Harry clarified, swinging a look back at James and squinting against the light clipped to his chest. “She looked like a teenager.”

“You mentioned her in your notes. You also said there was nothing really down here other than a key.”

“Eh, it’s Silent Hill. It’s kind of like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re gonna get, but they’re all gonna be the ones you hate.”

James’s hum was short. “Never been a fan of chocolates, anyway.”

“Yeah, you kinda struck me as a guy without a sweet tooth.” Harry inspected the boiler controls, its buttons and indicators alight in greens and reds. “Believe it or not, I’m not too much for ‘em, either. Maybe once in a blue moon I’ll destroy a box of Oreos or Twinkies.” He looked back at James yet again. “The Halloween and Christmas ones taste better. It’s about the colors. There’s something special about Oreos being red and orange. And sometimes the Christmas ones have peppermint.” The inspection continued. “Other than that, I’m more of a savory kinda guy.”

At the rate he was going with all this talking, he must be scared shitless. Harry had hardly taken a breath since they’d departed the music room, aside from any fighting they did along the way. As usual (and not counting the time he intentionally goaded him into it), James found the blabbering irksome, now more ever as he kept going, and slipped back into his morbid daydream. All that chattering was getting in the way of James’s fascination with the Otherworld, and at this time, acted as the hard origin of his moodiness.

“Well, damn. I was hoping there was something here,” Harry muttered, shining the light into every corner. “I feel like it was important, aside from seeing Alessa.”

“You mentioned fighting some monster here, then when you were done, you were in the boiler room and _ then _ you saw Alessa.”

He lifted his head. “Well, why didn’t you say so? You said I said there was nothing down here. I thought I’d been here _ before _ whatever fight that was.”

James scrunched his face. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. I said there _ is _ nothing else down here, because you only found a key, and no, you weren’t.”

“James, you drive me batty. _ Everything _ would be relevant. _ Everything _ could be important. So I hadn’t even been here before the fight, whatever that was, and just poof! appeared in the boiler room afterward. Great. Anything else?”

“You found a key.”

“Cool. I love keys. We haven’t picked one up in awhile.”

He decided he was done reminding him about the damn key. “We got one to the music room.”

“But we didn’t get to _ keep _ it,” Harry reminded him. “Which sucks, in its own way. But also, for the better. Probably wouldn’t want to have it around anyway.” A stretch of contemplative silence followed while he looked about, trying to decide what to do next. “Well, I’m out. You got any ideas? And y’know,” he interrupted any reply, pointing the weapon at James, “since you mentioned it, I still wanna read what I wrote. Maybe it’ll jog a memory or two. Midwich was a big deal.”

“Yeah, I know,” he curtly replied. “But I don’t know how feasible it is to sit down and do that right now.”

Harry scoffed. “We’ll have to make it feasible. I can’t pull up a memory without reading it.” When James curled his lip, he shouldered the pipe and inclined his head while he tried to read that defensive, empty face. Though their white glares shone in each other’s eyes, its illuminations provided them with easy judgment of one another and Harry concluded that James was, as always, such a charmer. “You really like those notes.”

He repressed another minor scowl. “They’re interesting.”

Looking him up and down, Harry said, “I bet. Where’re you now?”

“Back at Midwich. I wanted to look it over to see if it’d help.”

James countered the flat stare he received with one of his own. “Seriously? You’re a dick,” Harry accused. “C’mon. We’re gonna find a place to camp out, and I’m gonna have a look at those notes. You’re like a fuckin’ dragon about those,” he said, no less chuffed as he ushered James to head up first. “Sitting on them and hoarding like it’s made of gold and diamonds.”

The conduit kept mum until they were on the first floor. “We might not even get to read them. They’re wet, remember?”

Letting out a long groan, Harry jabbed the pipe into the floor and braced his weight on it. “Fuck me! Goddammit, that’s right,” he grumbled, passing a scathing look around at the Otherworld school. “_ Shit _. Well..”

“We can still see how salvageable it is,” James offered with a glance. “I can feel the backpack is still wet, but I guess it’s worth a shot.”

He chewed on his lip, glaring at a wall splotched in water stains and leaking assumed blood from the molding. “Yeah. That’d probably be our best bet. Fuck. Me.” Harry pushed off the bludgeon and swung it to and fro. “Let’s see if we can’t get into the teacher’s lounge. It might not be as cozy as it should, and the coffee’s gonna be a few days old, but we can make it work.” Rolling his head and shooting a sidelong look at James, the veteran then smiled. “Nothin’ wrong with a little old coffee. Just so long as it hasn’t started its own civilization. Then, unfortunately, you gotta play God and wipe out the world.”

Harry didn’t want to see the petulant look on his face, so he immediately pivoted to avoid it. 

Getting to the teacher’s lounge was a tad more inconvenient than they’d liked, but when they got there, the sofas Harry remembered were no more - which made sense. A few wooden chairs were scattered at whim and one long table pushed up against the wall. Upon that table, Harry found, was an empty inbox. They both had an unpalatable feeling about it, and left it alone to sort out their belongings. 

As James said, it was still wet. Harry lamentably clicked his tongue until he unzipped it and procured his personal memo pad from the top. 

It was damp, but not soaked anymore. The law he’d written across the first page - ** _NO JAMES SUNDERLANDS ALLOWED!! :P_ ** \- was surprisingly legible. There was some minor ink blowout that was also present on the clumped pages behind it, and thankfully, that was all the damage. In rows he laid the other memo pad, the bible, maps, handgun, ammo, and everything else stored within. Harry delicately audited all the paper products, frowning at the soft, rumpled pages that could too easily tear. 

Written and printed text alike could be read, and could very well be drying themselves out, should they be so lucky: the topmost pages on the pads were starting to crinkle, and the edges of the bible, too. He was baffled, however not in a rush to figure out the thought process here of ruining then restoring things. Like the inbox and nearly every other bizarre piece of Silent Hill’s philosophies, he left it alone. 

Harry took up the handgun and went through the motions of disassembly and inspection. Finding that might be a good idea for him too, James evaluated his shotgun as well. When Harry had done his part, he set it down in the row and flattened his hands on the table, leaning hard into his arms. 

“Well, isn’t this a kick in the head.” He nodded at the gun. “At least that seems okay, but I’m not really a gun guy, so I could be wrong.”

“You knew how to take it apart and put it back together.”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be a good idea to get accustomed to one after being here. I’ve got one at home but never had to use it. Thank god. Just go to the range sometimes to make sure I still know what I’m doing, but never stay long.”

“Mm.”

Harry turned his back to the table to recline against the edge and pulled out the school map. Taking heed of a second thought, he rifled in his jacket again for the fortune teller. While Harry played researcher, the memos too damp to separate and read, James continued to marvel the Otherworld. He meandered over to one of the fenced walls and curiously picked at the hard orange crust, which prompted a shudder from the unpleasant sensation, and he lowered his hand. Peeking through, unseen eyes scrutinized the civilian right back, and raised the hair on his neck.

As he’d experienced in the music room, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It’d persisted through their exploration of the transformed school and here, felt stronger. Peering again past the diamond-shaped iron, he squinted into the dark, adjusting his light to perhaps catch whatever might be observing him. The distant muttering only he was privy to seeped into his head, and had him diverting his eyes to the ceiling as was suggested. Those feelings weren’t unfounded: there _ was _ someone watching him. 

Above awaited a creature perhaps no larger than a teenager. Its body was lanky, cadaverous, and wrapped in mildewy skin spotted in brown sores and decay, hunched on all fours. The hair was black, stringy, and greasy, hanging around its head like a curtain, mouth silenced by a red plate beneath a smooth mask of skin where eyes should be. That plate reminded him of the girls they’d met in South Vale - the ones that had also followed them to Old Silent Hill. The eyeless face regarded him inquisitively. James did and said nothing. They “stared” at one another for a while, the only noise coming from the rustle of drying papers and distracted muttering from the man across the room. 

Finally, when the private broadcast to the town’s conduit signed off, James eyeballed the monster for another moment before he opened his mouth. “Hi.”

Harry glanced up at him, frowning. “.. hi?” James pointed upward, so he followed it to the ceiling and startled so badly that he would’ve knocked the table over if it hadn’t been secure against the wall. “Jesus CHRIST!”

He instinctively ducked down as the beast skittered over the lattice and Harry’s position. It paid him no mind as it passed him on its way into the beyond, where the sound of its tracks faded away. 

Spinning in place to watch it go, Harry worked a slack jaw, and pivoted again in fright when James’s boots clicked on his approach from behind. The younger man was as cool as a cucumber in vast difference to one skittish and middle-aged, and who stared wide-eyed and agape at his companion. 

“What the fuck was that?!”

“I’unno.”

“You dunno? How are you so calm about it?!”

James shrugged. 

“I will _ never _ figure you out,” Harry growled, swiftly turning to load up the backpack. “Some things got you all fucked up, and yet, some things like _ that _ is nothing but a fly’s sneeze.”

He handed the pack off to the man who awaited it. They collected their weapons from the table, except Harry’s clamored straight to the ground when something heavy outside the open door fell with a sound thud. The veteran grabbed his chest, then closed his eyes and huffed a resentful exhale. Like he was criticized for mere seconds earlier, James remained stolid. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry muttered for the umpteenth time since they got here. “I swear to god..” He snatched the rod from the ground and rolled his shoulders and head in tandem. Exiting the would-be teacher’s lounge presented the large sign-in book, tented on its pages, in their path. 

The ledger got dumped on the unsanitary Otherworld reception desk. Scanning the pages, they were, as anyone would expect, discolored and speckled with blood. Harry absently ground his teeth, looking over the smeared ink blotted by who-knows-what. Towards the bottom of the right hand page, elegant penmanship filled out the required information to check in to the school. 

  * Date: —/—/19–
  * Name: Dahlia Gilles—
  * Relation: Mother
  * Name of student: Alessa G——-
  * Reason for visit: Removing child — ——-
  * Class: ——

“Well, well, well. Whaddya know.”

“Hm.”

Harry tapped the log. “Our dear friend Dahlia checked out Alessa at some point. That’s interesting..” Flicking the pages to and fro, he suddenly did a double take and flipped back a page prior. His eyes scanned the intakes, wrinkles of consternation on his brow and a frown lowering his lips. “Okay. There’s more of ‘em. All from Dahlia. The fuck..?”

Around Harry’s shoulder, James took a gander at the sparse list of nearly identical records from Dahlia’s hand. Albeit apathetic about it at first, with each page-turn backwards, the frequency of logs, and his alarm, increased. By the time Harry ran out of pages, her scrawl had overwhelmed the book from top to bottom. The sheer mass of it all squashed together felt dizzying and obscene. It managed to spook him.

None of these blocks provided dates nor classroom. Going forward this time better demonstrated the steady decrease until the final page they’d started from, where the solitary entry remained. There was nothing else behind it, and all other pages were glued together. 

Harry’s nor Heather’s registry were anywhere to be found. 

James was not a fan.

For a couple seconds he watched Harry hypothesize to himself, then squeezed past him to investigate the hall. The benches were askew now, the walls befouled, and he was enamored. His masters were present and unseen (though had never truly left), and their private frequency returned in the back of his head. It tuned itself much as their handheld radio once did, sounding miles away. He gave it dull notice, cruising the immediate area with an archaeologist’s fixed interest. 

Then he remembered the bulletin board. Around the corner it’d endured, howbeit this time, lacking most of its advertisements; any remaining were distorted or ripped. His eyes fell to the bottom where the Shepherd’s Glen field trip bill had been tacked. James beheld the flyer, torn in half, in contempt. _ You should’ve taken it, _ ridiculed his inner voice. _ You needed it. What are you going to do now? You should’ve taken it! _

“Fuck,” he muttered so quietly that Harry couldn’t hear it from the desk. “Fuck me. You fucking idiot, James.” He pursed his lips inward, scanning the board, the wall, and even the ceiling in pointless hopes of a second chance, but there was nothing here to save him. 

Closing the ledger, Harry smoothed his hands on its cover and stared down at his knuckles. 

“Hey, James,” he called him over, looking up. “You got any ideas? I’m fresh out.”

“Nope.”

“Fantastic.” Stepping back, he took up his trusty pipe. “I feel completely lost here. I haven’t the faintest idea where to go. Maybe a classroom, but.. ugh.. I dunno, for some reason it feels.. weird.”

“I guess we could take another look around in case we missed something, anyway. Or if something popped up.”

Sighing histrionically, Harry stretched out his spine and brandished the pipe in the direction of the west hall. “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder.”

Hating that that old patriotic song he’d forgotten even existed was now stuck in his head, James began after him. Their journey got cut right short at scuttling behind them. Harry whirling around and James casually swiveling, their lights fell upon the same creature that had been in the ceiling. She - because it looked like a she - tilted her eyeless head; her neck was unnaturally able to stretch and fully display her face to them despite her all-fours crouch. 

Her red plate forced her speechless, yet it felt like that had been her choice. She wagged her head at them in a way that seemed like a friendly or even playful hello. Harry had every right to distrust her, as odd as that greeting was; but it did its job of slightly lowering his guard. Nevertheless, he eyeballed her as though she were as dangerous as a rabid possum. Their possible new friend (or foe) turned away and ambled to the east. 

James was ready to go after her, but waited for his cue. The veteran stood stagnant to go over probable pros and cons of taking the chance. She was hardly far away when she ‘looked’ back over her shoulder. Sensing they (Harry) were hesitating, she authoritatively smacked the floor to motivate them forward. When they (Harry) hadn’t moved, she rotated in place and reprised herself, this time _ ordering _ them along.

Harry leaned his head back a bit, winced, and conceded to her demand. “Okay, okay,” he soothed, catching up. “We got the message, loud and clear.” The thing waited until they were _ right _ on her tail to take the lead through the corridor and up the staircase to the second floor. 

The school was strangely devoid of other monsters. Their guide _ did _ exude an unequivocal supremacy that possibly scared the residents away. She took them into a depressing classroom that housed children’s desks piled up in the corner by the chalkboard, leaving a dirty floor open for two neatly placed desks side by side as a centerpiece. Veteran and civilian curiously observed from the door as their charitable shepherd solemnly approached the shrine before them. Circling the desks twice, she then came to a stop behind the chairs, ducking her head to ‘peek’ into their storage. 

Taking it as a hint to come inspect for themselves, Harry prudently walked the vinyl floor to where she hunkered; James remained by the door. He rested his fingertips on a nostalgic, faux oak fiberboard surface - a thing that completed the identity of any learning institution. Loving father and rotting girl studied one another, he asking why she was helping them, to which her facelessness replied: _ ‘You needed it.’ _ She extinguished their wordless dialogue by retreating to the stained lockers at the back of the room.

Leaping to their top, her skeletal hands pushed open a framed trap door on the ceiling. Away she slipped, smooth as a cat, through its space for the black intestines of the Otherworld. The door clattered shut an imperious echo that drummed throughout the entire school. 

The misbegotten, abandoned travelers stood deferential until it faded away. 

James appeared at his side. They were quiet in the wake of their white rabbit, wrapped up in the leftovers of her hallowed spell. Harry cast his eyes down to the desk. The surface his fingers lightly touched was unblemished and clear of dust. Its neighbor, on the other hand, wasn’t at all, being riddled with carvings and battery by no fault of its own under a layer of grey. 

These desks were lonely without their pupils. 

His green-eyed gaze tracked Harry to the vandalized desk. Harry shuffled his feet, standing behind the petite blue chair. Bleakly sweeping away the dust, repentant and shamefaced, he viewed a childhood’s undeserved hatred sliced into wood. He folded his hand over the back of the short plastic school chair, scanning it over, and only looked up because of James’s question.

“What is it?”

“Alessa.” Harry gave him a small, rueful smile. “She brought us to Alessa.”


	37. You're In Trouble, Mister

Harry got to his knees without too much of his ritualistic grunting, pulling away the small blue plastic chair from its tucked in spot. He shed his jacket, pushed up his sleeves, unclipped the flashlight, and shone it into Alessa’s small compartment desk. Light filled the cave and cast hard shadows, and as he searched, his knuckles bumped its ceiling. The thought occurred to him that it might just lift up and make him look a proper idiot for not thinking of it in the first place. Folded hinges screwed to the metal walls confirmed he was a fool indeed. Giving the edge a wiggle and push, it was evident it was too stubborn and for the moment, saved him from James’s judgments. 

He pulled out failed assignments, a black and white speckled writing book commonplace among middle schools, pencils, and at the far back, a crumpled ball of paper. Opening it showed it was ripped in half - apparently for unfriendly note passing. 

_ You’re a witch and nobody likes you. Hope you catch fire and burn! _

“Mature for their age,” Harry commented. “Their parents must’ve been very proud.”

“Mm.”

The note was handed off to his companion, since he showed interest. Some things about James were getting easier to read than others.

It felt shameful to invade a child’s privacy, even if that child was long gone. Harry went through Alessa’s things with a heavy heart. The teachers had bullied her, encouraged it in her peers, even, and turned a blind eye to any of their harm. Life was against Alessa Gillespie and she was well within her right to exact as much revenge as she’d liked - and that she did. 

Sifting through the pages revealed a girl with neat handwriting, and who was a good student, though the red marks said different. Her desk upkeep was something less to be than desired, which he understood, and from what he could glean from her assignments, she was otherwise meticulous. Alessa had handled her work with care. He had to wonder how much of that was her personality, and how much of it was Dahlia’s influence. 

Towards the middle of the writing book was a pink slip carelessly folded. It was a disciplinary notice to report to the principal’s office for a short list of offenses. “Oh, that’s bullshit,” Harry muttered under a frown. He straightened the crease with his thumb. Projection was a very real thing, but telling by the sharp, quick cursive, he didn’t think that calling the writing ‘smug’ wouldn’t be off the mark. It was penned by obvious malice; there was no projection here. 

“Bullying other students, disrupting the class, and being combative,” Harry scoffed to James, tossing the note across Alessa’s desk. “Yeah, I’m sure she was. What a load of shit.”.

Being the man he was, Harry had wondered before what she could’ve become had there been better reverence for her gifts. It was more than a shame that an innocent such as she had been thrown into the Order’s foul plots. But he’d ruminated on her and her twisted roots in Silent Hill enough to span beyond seventeen years. He had to set his simmering anger aside, force all his runaround thoughts away, and put his focus first. 

James lightly cast the mean, one-way correspondence onto the clean desk and shoved his hand in his pocket. Harry retrieved it and the pink slip, tucking them into the back cover of the notebook. Having set Alessa’s things neatly to the side, he pushed away the second chair and scooted over on his knees to assess the innards of the neighboring desk. He found it scrupulous and almost bare. It too had hinges that would - should - allow its surface to rise. Giving it a shot, he tried the edge, and up it went. 

The lid wasn’t meant to lock into place. Harry stood and propped the desk open again. There was a pencil in the divot, and a singular lined sheet of paper that bore the title ‘HOMEWORK’ as the face of a small, pristine stack of papers that lay on an identical writing book. In the narrow columns were numbers one through five.

All were unused except for number five. That damn 11:30 sat on an otherwise blank row. Below that in an empty line, a middle schooler’s penmanship was developing into its own distinct reflection of the person becoming. The letters were orderly and light handed, surprisingly elegant for a child.

Two would-be sentences indented from the side column, difficult to discern under the frantic strokes of an eraser. The numbered title appeared to have some sort of meaning other than what the fortune teller had predicted. 11:30 no longer portrayed hands on a clock. These sentences that were missing letters and even full words, held a deeper meaning, so it seemed. These words were far out of a child’s casual vocabulary, proper and insightful, almost like a..

“Is this a bible verse?”

James bent to look. “Dunno. I’ve never read the bible.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t expect you to.”

He glanced at his profile. “I didn’t sub—“

“Yeah, yeah. You weren’t any religious type.”

At least he remembered that. “How do you know it’s a bible verse?”

“It reads like one. From what I can even tell.” Harry held the paper close to his face and light, squinting at the short, faint passage. _“‘The fruit of.. the.. _uhh.. _right.. eous, _I think.. _is a_ _tree..? of life;..’_ .. and, everything else is gone. Yeah. ‘The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life.’ This sounds like a bible verse. Hm. Cool. We don’t _have_ a normal bible. We’ve only got the cult one. And it’s wet.”

James studied the text, tilting his head, and shrugged. “It means something. We’re just gonna have to find it.”

“But what does that have to do with failing the math test at eleven-thirty? If eleven-thirty is a bible passage, that doesn’t make any sense. Ugh,” he grunted, digging for the fortune teller and opening it again. “Fuckin’ Silent Hill runnin’ us around in circles. And here I was starting to think it was handing us puzzles again like it was a ‘_ Silent Hill For Dummies.’ _When we finally meet God or whatever, She’s getting an earful.”

The civilian stepped to the side to get a look at Alessa’s desk. It was like a condemned house in the worst part of town next to a new mansion in a well-to-do neighborhood. There were so many harsh words permanently ground into a place a poor girl had to see every day. Children were unashamedly mean at that age, and it was generally downhill from there.

He had to pity her. All he knew of Alessa was through Harry’s story. There was a lot to read and of course there were holes and vague fragments all around, but Harry seemed to have done his best to keep an accurate account. This sacrificial daughter perturbed and intrigued him, and since she had been nothing but a character in a story thus far, seeing physical evidence of her existence felt strangely fake. It was as though she and he were so disconnected from one another that James had a hard time believing she’d ever been alive. 

James figured this was due to his isolation in South Vale. The Order meant nothing to him, so Alessa Gillespie held no importance. Her role was understood to an extent, but he was so removed from the history here. He wandered Old Silent Hill with scarcely a snowflake of connection to it. Here he was the tourist and his charge the guide. James was out of his element and would be for the rest of their mission. 

He didn’t like this loss of control. 

“Damn. Well, beats me. I wonder whose desk this even is,” Harry mused aloud. “My guess is that this is the ‘one is a neighbor and friend of two.’ .. one is a neighbor and friend of two,” he murmured, scrunching his face at the fortune teller’s passage. His lips pursed inward then outward, and his brows ticked upwards. “Hey. Can you get the sketchbook out?”

James obliged. Harry accepted it. “Okay,” he breathed, plopping it down on the pristine desk to flip through. Finding the happy scene, he locked his arms and rounded his shoulders, and got down to business studying the drawing.

“So. The two girls. One is Alessa, the other is her friend. Obviously. Since it’s written right here. They’re standing in front of a church,” he described, helping himself and possibly James get their thinkers going. “And we’re at their desks with that bible quote. The woman has to be Dahlia, since it says that mommy doesn’t like her. No clue who the girl in the grass is. But the note reads,” Harry continued, referencing the paper game beside his fist. _ “‘One is the neighbor and friend of two; four is company, but also a crowd; three stands alone, waiting on the side. Together they’re a family, though one always goes missing; we do our homework, but never learn a thing.’ _” 

The author exhaled hard. “Neighbor and friend of two is Alessa and mystery girl. There’s four people here. Three is the girl in the grass waiting on the side. They’re all a family, and one always goes missing; we do our homework,” he said, tapping the page titled ‘HOMEWORK,’ “but never learn a thing..” His voice petered off, frowning now. “One always goes missing.” Harry scrunched his face. “Always goes missing. If this is Alessa, and that Dahlia.. fuck. I don’t know.”

James stared at the upside down art. This was Harry’s riddle to solve. It only drove home how useless he felt. The hum of industrial fans provided white noise and for James, soothed his troubled self. He felt calm. The Otherworld was as comfortable as home; he liked it here.

He was wise to forever keep that to himself. 

“Maybe I missed something in the desk,” the father distractedly muttered, getting to the floor again to rifle through Alessa’s bare storage. He looked for anything, anything at all, maybe stuck somewhere, maybe a coin, or a note, or even a matchstick. A whole lot of nothing later, he went through the papers with a more critical eye, leaving James to turn the sketchbook and fortunes to face him. 

He flipped the page to the next for the far more grim scene. Then back. Then forward; then back again. And back further to view the imagination of a seven-year-old girl. 

Cheryl apparently liked drawing landscapes. There were a lot of trees, hills, grass and flowers, and of course a big sun. One of the suns had sunglasses and a smile. Also depicted was she and Harry at a park, he presumed, with big smiles and crazy hair for her dad. The corner of James’s mouth indented his cheek. Cute. 

Her drawings were innocent and run-of-the-mill for a young kid. The contrast between hers and, allegedly, Alessa’s were drastic and sad. James had just begun to feel bad for them when Harry shuffled the papers, slapped them on the vandalized desk, and got up. Watching him pull on his jacket and clip his light, James closed the book and put it away in the backpack. 

“I didn’t find anything else we could use,” Harry told him, staring down at the stack. “Nothing really jumped out at me.”

“Guess we should move on.”

“Yeah. Wish I knew whose desk this was,” he said, tapping the nicer lid. “But I have a feeling we’ll find out eventually.”

“Always do.”

“Yeah. Welp. Let me make a note of this on the map real quick, then we can go see—“

They both looked up when the loudspeakers crackled in their corners across the school. It interrupted Harry’s reach into his jacket, cringing at the noise and feedback, and James bore a frown as a woman’s lackluster voice filled the building. 

“Would Harry Mason please come to the principal’s office?”

The veteran’s eyes darted over the walls and settled on the box speaker in the upper corner. He grimaced against the popping and sizzling electricity taking up a courtesy pause before the unknown voice requested again, “Would Harry Mason please come to the principal’s office?” then snapped off. 

Standing there in the abruptly noiseless classroom made them rather uncomfortable after that cryptic announcement. The two stared at the old speaker in bewilderment. Both were captured in the distinct feeling that all students had when hearing something like that - a particular fearful, sinking feeling that they were in trouble. Neither had experienced that emotion in a long while. It was infantilizing. 

After a dumb beat, James asked, “What did you do?”

Harry exaggerated a harder frown and shrug. “Dunno. Maybe someone found the stick figures fighting in the boy’s bathroom. But it wasn’t me,” he defended himself, pointing the pipe at James. “I’m being framed.”

“Uh huh.”

“I swear.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It absolutely, _ definitely _ wasn’t me.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t make this worse for me, James,” he warned, then jerked his head towards the door to signal his follow. “I’m counting on you to have my back.” 

“You want me to lie for you?” the conduit asked. “How do I know you really didn’t do it?”

Harry scoffed, looking at his skeptical face as they walked along - then their banter and trek stopped short at the sound of a telephone ringing somewhere close by. He looked at the stairwell; it was coming from downstairs. And it sounded insistent. “Huh. Reception isn’t gonna answer that?” 

“It’s one o’clock. Might be at lunch.”

“Well, I don’t want to get into _ more _ trouble for answering the school phone.”

James grunted. Hoping not to lose their streak, Harry lifted his shoulders to his ears and picked up from where they left off. “Anyway, you’re not _ lying _ for me,” he reasoned, starting down the stairs. “Because I didn’t _ do _ anything. You just.. gotta back me up. Y’know, say that you were with me the whole day.”

“Then how do you know about the stick figures?”

“Oh, come on,” scoffed the other man. “Like you don’t, either.”

“I don’t.”

“Psh. Liar.”

James shrugged. “Call me a liar and I won’t help you out.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that.”

They landed, one after the other, on the main floor. “Nobody likes being called a liar, right?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, just— I’ll give you half my lunch money if you help me out.”

“All of it.”

They halted at the reception desk when Harry held up his hand. “_ All _ of it?!” he goggled, having to raise his voice over the ringing. “Come on!”

Again he shrugged, turning his deadpan to a far more talented actor’s annoyed gawk. “Yeah. All of it.”

Harry sneered, dropping the gesture. “Man, you’re expensive. You better be worth it. I was looking forward to pizza day.”

James tipped his head to his lifted shoulder. “Sucks for you.”

“Jackass,” his companion muttered under his breath, looking for the elusive office around the immediate area. James scuffed his feet as he trailed him. 

“I heard that. Don’t call me a jackass or else I’ll raise the price.”

Harry shot him a disapproving look over his shoulder. “How did you hear that? Fine. Whatever. Jerk.” Eyeballing the jut of his chin and smug gaze that knew he had him by the hypothetical balls, the author huffed, and finally found the door labeled PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE directly across from the reception. He didn’t recall it ever being there in their traipsing about the school; it seemed like an impossible room. He tried not to let the dread it brought sully their rare, welcome game they had going on - especially since James had initiated it. The noise was coming from inside the room, and louder than ever.

Their playtime was compelled to come to an end. “We’ll figure it out later, okay?”

Turning the knob, he pushed into the Otherworld room of four walls and floor made of disgusting iron mesh, furnished with a beat up desk, chair, and the impatient old, blue telephone. He apprehensively approached it, rapping the steel on his leg when he stood at the desk, and took a breath. That next ring became its last, for just as he went to pick up the receiver, it disrupted itself and fell silent.

He wrinkled his brow and withdrew his reach. “.. okay. I guess we took too long.”

James joined his side. “Hm.”

“Yeah. Hm.”

“Too bad you can’t call back.”

Harry perked up immediately. “Actually, I bet you can. I totally forgot about that.” James questioningly glanced over as Harry picked up the receiver again.

“Huh?”

“Star sixty-nine,” he said, punching in the numbers and looking at him while he listened to the dial and fuzz. “Like in the nineties. If you missed a call, you could generally dial star sixty-nine and call back whoever called you.”

For whatever reason, that _ did _ sound accurate to James. He heard the click of the line picking up, and watched Harry’s face.

“Please listen carefully as our menu options have changed,” said a female voice loud enough for James to hear beside him. “For school hours and location, press one. To page a student, press two. To hear about our policies against cheating, press three. To hear about our policies against lying, press four. For all other inquiries, press zero. Would you like the time?”

Harry’s eyes darted wildly and distractedly at the wall, then down at the number pad. “Would you like the time?” she asked again. 

One might be moved to call her voice ‘unsettling.’ She sounded like the same woman from the announcement, now tonally professional, and had inflections that told them both that she was ‘human.’ In that, though, lay underlinings that implied she never was, and never could be. It was a near perfect imitation of a real person that felt _ wrong _.

The civilian wrinkled his nose at the nostril. Her voice patiently repeated her question, over and over with nary a pause.

Harry hesitated. All the options were things he wanted to hear, ominous and intriguing as they were, but it was clear there was only one correct choice for him to make. He bit his lip, taking a short breath as she asked again, “Would you like the time?”

“Yes.”

“_And the souls of the evil will be removed _. It is now 11:30.” The line clicked off and deserted him to the dial tone. 

He removed the receiver from his ear and stared down at it while the beeping carried on. “11:30 is a bible passage _ and _ the time?” his quiet bafflement asked. Delicately placing it down in its cradle, he had but a moment to frown heavily at the telephone before a thud landed somewhere across the hall. 

Visitor and resident glanced at one other. They went to investigate and upon the pitiful stack of papers in the inbox, was the gold medallion. 

It made a pretty paperweight. 

Harry picked it up. It glinted and shone its tarnished color at them. The medallion, like A Silver Moon, was too large for the palm of his hand. Staring down at it made Harry recall the dead man’s claw clutching the piece, truly making good of the promise how one would ‘have to pry this out of his cold, dead hands.’ Back then the irony wasn’t lost on him, and right now, felt as though his hand could be the last to eternally grip it, too. 

He hopped it in his palm and turned to James. “Welp. Solved that.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah. I think it’s kinda weird, too.” Wrinkling his nose, Harry brushed the textured face under his thumb, regarding it distrustfully. “Wasn’t I _ just _ saying that it was kinda nice not being handed things? I know we’re not the _ brightest _ tools in the shed, but a little confidence in us would be nice..”

James grunted. “Yeah.”

“I don’t like the feeling that we’re being babysat,” he added. “It feels like Silent Hill’s impatient with us. Like, ‘hurry it along!’ while also trying to get us lost. It doesn’t make any sense.” The father peered at his guardian. “Has it been saying anything to you?”

He sighed hard through his nose. “Here and there. It’s been acting strange. It told me about that girl-thing that helped us out,” James revealed. “Other than that.. nothing really too important. It sounds.. distracted, and.. distorted?” He performed one of his signature shrugs. “Mostly distracted. I don’t think it knows what it’s doing.”

“I’d’ve thought that when it sucked you it’d up the ante, too; give us a harder time.”

“Yeah. You’d think.” James shook his head to Harry’s sigh. “I don’t know, Harry. I think it’s confused. It feels weird to me too. I’m getting mixed signals.”

“Great. Just what we need: a possessed town that’s got itself fucked up in knots.” Harry looked the medallion over again, then put it and his hand in his pocket. “What about Heather?”

“What about her?”

Harry gestured vaguely through his jacket. “Any clues, or updates?”

He shook his head. “No. Haven’t heard about her since that first time when she came in.”

“Damn. I dunno what to do here, James,” he told him, rapping the pipe on his leg. “I think it spooks me more to think that Silent Hill is more unbalanced than usual. It’s been so.. weird since we left South Vale.” Harry passed a skeptical look at his companion. “Hm. You think maybe busting you out of South Vale has anything to do with this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, like.. maybe it shifted the energies around in a way Silent Hill wasn’t expecting,” he speculated. “Now it’s all screwy. Even if it _ let _ you out.”

James couldn’t find anything to add to that. “I don’t know, Harry. I can feel it’s off. The town’s talking weird. You might be right.”

Sighing a sigh that wished he wasn’t right, the veteran looked at the floor, then out to the hall. “We better get this medallion into the clocktower.”

“Mm.”

“It’ll probably unlock,” Harry tiredly remarked, walking the short trip to the courtyard doors around the corner of the reception. “And we’ll take the stairs up to the roof. And 3B, I bet.” Closing his hand on the horizontal push handle, he shot James a faint smile. “Whee.”

The clocktower awaited them across the yard. Otherworld night had removed the snow and fog from the atmosphere. They set foot on the wide stone path and as soon as the school doors clicked into place, the clock announced the time. 11:30 had come, indeed; odd that it had delayed itself after the woman’s say. 

It was as though it were waiting for them. 

Harry and James flicked their bemused eyes up to its bold face. These wanderers weren’t meant to ponder it for long, for a burst of inky plumes from the ground stole their attention. Its manifestation acted as a symphony orchestra’s world-renowned conductor heralding an overlapping choir of children’s shrill, echoing moans and cries to overstimulate their ears. 

In the middle of the courtyard, a red glow shone so bright it penetrated the black smog. Without the fog it would have illuminated the entire area; instead, it backlit the true nature of what the clouds contained. Amassed within was an army of ashy hands stretching out from the ground, writhing over each other like a pile of worms. They were familiar (as though they could be forgotten), seen before a good while ago, and were just as unfriendly here than they had been in the Lake View Hotel stairwell.

It was an ambush.

Shock detained James and Harry from immediate reaction. The mass acted like a wildfire’s vapors, billowing at random and its feathering fading out before it reached their shoulders. But their stupor was short lived; survival instincts threw them into action. 

James took off quick as a startled rabbit for the tower. Harry began a sprint after him and barely got three steps in before the horde seized his weapon and jacket, yanking him into their abyssal sea. 

James heard his shout and spun around. He’d gotten ahead, but instantly started to backtrack when he saw Harry had vanished, only to find he wouldn’t get any closer to where he used to be. His feet and legs were suddenly no better than a fly caught on a sticky paper trap. Hands grabbed at his jeans, the hang of his jacket, the stock of his gun. The longer he was forced to stand there, the more it felt like the ground was slowly bowing under his weight - as though it intended to pull him under, and eat him up. 

_ “HARRY!” _ he yelled over the mangled harmonies. James wrenched his gun from the predatory hands, frantically searching the mire for his body. The shotgun soundly cocked and fired into the pool directly below. Wails replied and grips weakened, and the three shells he unloaded around his feet quivered the ties that bound him. His last shell went into the thick near where he thought Harry went down, another burst dispersing the ensemble, allowing him to just see the ground under thinning wisps.

He loaded his weapon during his long strides. Blasting what he hoped was a safe perimeter where Harry supposedly was did him well; the black fog gave way to his body on the stone. Harry was clawing at the ground, fighting in vain to get up under the hands that marooned him like Gulliver in Lilliput and finally shot up on his arms when James’s aim freed him.

“Get the fuck up!” James demanded, reloading as quickly as he could. The hands could only stay wounded for so long; they were again grasping his legs as their strength recovered. One more shot near him unbound Harry from his prison and he scrambled to his feet with the aid of James taking a handful of his jacket to pull him up. Once on his feet, Harry held the pipe high over his head before it could be snatched.

“Get a move on!” he shouted back at James, taking advantage of their short window to press through the onslaught like wet cement trying to drown them to the deep. James’s blasts nearly overrode the unholy screams and wails that pierced and deafened their ears. Wading through took a toll on their strength and the claws attempting to catch James’s wrist weakened his reload time when he went in his pocket to retrieve shells.

Worse, they had no other choice but to skirt the middle of the yard where the glow broke through the fog.

It was no question what it was. Fierce, blistering pain raided their skulls as easily as a sponge soaks water. Pins stabbed into the crevices of their brains like the precise hand of a voodoo priest and sounded like _ laughter; _ evil, scorching laughter from nowhere else but the sigil emblazoned on the ground. For James, it was too much, and his reloading ceased altogether. Harry, though delirious, wildly beat back the swarming flock.

“Fuck **_OFF!”_** Harry bellowed with his pitiless swing. “Fucking **_shit!_** You goddamn **_shitty_** fucking **_town_****!** **_Augh_****!**” He ducked his head, eyes squeezed shut in agony. Though blinded, he knew James was directly in front of him, and they _had_ to make it; they were so fucking _close._ The stab thrust on his spine from Harry’s steel hook ripped James from his roots, and sent him staggering to their target.

After all, one must always use force when necessary. 

James tripped over his feet and crashed hard onto the clocktower steps. Striking his shins didn’t compare to the powerful ache in his head, but he desperately powered through. He used the wall to pull himself up, then twisted his body, and squinted back at Harry.

“Harry!” The veteran jerked up his head in acknowledgment; his eyes stung too much to look. “The medallion! Give it to me!”

Harry forcibly screwed his eyes up at last to James’s outstretched hand, trying to decipher what he’d said through the madness. “The medallion!” James screamed again._ “Give me the fucking medallion!” _

His hand plunged into his pocket. They had one chance to get this right. He had to take that risk, and with all the prayers in the world, tossed it high underhand. 

Flared, bony fingers caught the tarnished weight and James spun back to the wall. He braced himself to its stone, the hands below clamoring for his sleeve, and slammed the medallion into its socket.

Atrophied screeches and howls flooded the courtyard like shattering china. The clusters that’d reached and stymied exploded into ash as the tower’s solid gates flung open. Their sudden break from tension sent Harry’s body floundering like a rag doll, stumbling up the steps after James’s scramble inside. They crashed into one another, dropping hard into the ground behind the lethargically closing doors as the prized clocktower welcomed their well-earned victory to its cage. 

The test at 11:30 had not been failed after all.


	38. We're Gonna Need A Bigger Cup For This One

James grimaced in pain. He’d hit the ground hard and the backpack, combined with Harry’s solid body toppling over him, gave his spine a good bruising. The sigil’s headache’s abrupt end left him somewhat dizzy. But he was being crushed in the sandwich of Harry’s dense weight and the bag “supporting” him; the man above was still too dazed to realize what broke his fall, and wheezed next to his head.

“Harry,” James strained. “Get off me.” He filled his lungs when Harry quickly came to his senses and pushed himself up, then flopped to the side. Their recovering breaths infused the dank tower.

The flashlights brightened up a black space that was no cozier than an old well. To no one’s surprise, the clocktower was cramped. A large spiral staircase led to the stone heavens; and the civilian had fallen a mere scant foot away from its base edge. James had _someone_ looking out for him for him not to have cracked his skull open on the first step.

Harry tiredly ran his hands over his hair a few times, smoothing it into his preferred slicked back look, then dropped them to the ground. The floor was gritty; he dusted his hand off on his thigh. Twisting about, he reached to grab the staircase ledge and pulled himself up. After waiting out the short spin in his head, he stepped to James and offered his help. James accepted and got to his feet.

“That was somethin’, huh?” he half-heartedly joked. “You okay?”

James frowned at the floor, painfully rolling out his shoulder and stretching his back. “Yeah.”

“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to crush you, there.”

James grunted. “Potato, potato.”

Harry returned a chuckle. “Heh. Yeah.” Swiping off his pants had him making a face, and he displayed his palm to the light. “.. oh. Weird. James, look.”

Ash turned his palm white. They both looked down at themselves and wherever the demons had touched, they’d smeared grey and white powder like children’s finger painting. Harry was _covered_ in it. Groaning pathetically, he tried to brush himself off from head to toe, but only got so far. The stuff stuck worse than glitter. “Man! Seriously? Ugh, what a pain in the..”

James did a dispassionate clean up of his own. “You’re vain.”

“So I’ve been told,” he grouchily muttered. “I like to look nice, sue me.”

“I don’t see the point of it if you’re gonna be in Silent Hill,” he said, watching Harry take off his jacket to shake and sweep its back.

“Yeah, maybe it looks stupid,” Harry replied. He’d done what he could with the leather and pulled it on with a disappointed scowl. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll meet a nice girl here. I don’t want to give off the wrong impression and make her think I don’t care about my appearances.”

James snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Right. How dumb of me.”

“Don’t worry, James,” he comforted, fetching his weapon from the floor. “We can still make a prize out of you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry wagged the pipe at his side and weaseled past his companion to look at the plaque by the stairwell. “1L. Hmm. Remember that,” he said, clinking metal hook on metal square, “so we know where we parked the car.”

James had exhausted his conversational repertoire. Leaning to peer up the tall, twisting staircase, Harry thoughtfully tap tap tapped the pipe on his calf, took the handrail, and started the ascent.

Climbing the corkscrew took them to another mounted plate. Interestingly, it read ‘2B’ as though there was supposed to be a landing or a door to exit through, yet there was nothing but rounded stone. 3B had to be close.

The trek upwards seemed higher than the tower itself. Their shoes clicked and clanked on the stairs and soon, Harry was winded. James’s dry annoyance with the man’s pitiful stamina returned, and it persisted until the end when Harry, panting, pointed out the final tablet by the door.

“3B,” he gulped. “We made it. Finally. Jesus, that was longer and steeper than I expected.” He forced the door outward on its sticky hinges, and officially arrived at the top. Harry gave a great sigh and caught his breath, shimmying his shoulders while the door complained its way closed. James shuffled to his side. “Stairs, man,” exhaled the writer, casting a sidelong glance to his colleague. “Those were rough.”

But he’d find no solidarity in it. James was physically unbothered and looked bored at best. Brow wrinkling, Harry lightly shook his head and looked out across the roof.

Or, it was _supposed_ to be the roof. None of it looked anything like a roof at all. The chamber hosted some untraceable, diluted light of a factory past its prime, and swathed the entire scope of the place in shadowy, orange gloom. Where the endless black sky should have lurked high overhead, the Otherworld extended its signature pockmarked iron in its stead, barely seen through the light that dulled the further it tried to reach.

An industrial fan whirred somewhere at their far left, churning warm air that ghosted cooler over their hair and skin by the time it reached them. Its buzz blended with a large boiler’s thrum in the corner nearby, its dim crimson lights glowing fuzzy and baleful.

Concrete, not grate, spanned far beneath their feet. Cracks bandaged by tar veined the floor, all of them seemingly gunning for the middle, where they dove into a black mass. The space was huge; there was no telling how far it went.

This place resembled a basement more than the roof it should have been.

Harry directed his trusty light to the right corner and wandered to check it out. There was naught but a quartet of unmarked, dirty barrel drums. That warranted a full inspection; knocking and gently rocking one told him they were full. Of what, he’d leave a mystery.

“They’re some barrels over there,” he reported upon his return. “Dunno what’s in them, and I wasn’t about to find out.”

James’s shoulders went up and down. Harry imitated, looked at the floor, and nodded to the tar rivers snaking for the center of the room. Words weren’t needed to agree on their next destination, so they tentatively followed until they came upon the wide, gaping maw of a hole possibly as large as the room itself. James was braver than Harry in looking down into it. Harry didn’t dare get too close to the edge, choosing to do his peeking from the safest distance he could. Their white beams touched the rough concrete edges within their proximity and nowhere else; the depths in the town never had a bottom.

“Hm! Well! I don’t like that.”

James searched the nothingness without many expectations. “There’s not much to like in Silent Hill.”

“Solid point.” Harry stood back, shuddering. “I hope we’ll never have to go down there, or anywhere dark and cavernous, for that matter. I highly doubt Silent Hill has spelunking equipment, and if it did, I’d doubt even more that it’d be up to code.”

“You’ve said that before.” James glanced over, watching him skirt the hole from a healthy few feet from its edge.

“Yeah? Well, then I stand by it. Or away from it.”

James looked down into the hole again. A faint frown lowered his brows. He adjusted his light, slowly guiding it to and fro. Tucking his lips inward, he straightened his posture and caught up to Harry. They took the trip around the circumference, closely passing the imposing fan that took up most of the wall. Its blades blew hard enough on them to slightly upset their balance and sent their hair every which way. When they got out of its vicinity Harry did some bellyaching under his breath and reset his hair for the second time. James decided to again follow his lead, though certainly wasn’t as fastidious as his counterpart.

The other side of the room had a station of wheel valves attached to the wall. There were a set of three in a row and one on its lonesome nearby. All four wore red, chipped paint. Upon closer review, they were found to be also situated conveniently at chest height. Harry pursed his lips at them, absently rapping the steel rod on his open palm like a policeman with his nightstick.

“Neat.” A quiet. “Wonder what these do.”

“Probably open the gate.”

Harry caught the pipe for good and shot him a look, asking, “What gate?”

“The gate in the hole.”

Harry couldn’t be more stupefied. “What _gate_ in the hole?”

“There’s a gate in the hole,” James repeated, lacking an ounce of cooperation. He frowned a little at the prickly look he received.

“James.” A parent’s condescending flatness went unappreciated. “What gate in the hole.”

“There’s a gate in the hole,” was said for a third time, turning Harry’s annoyance into exasperation. But on this round, James graciously followed it up with, “It’s really hard to see, but it’s down there.”

Harry averted his eyes and newly deadpan face to the valves. Swear to god, he thought, he was gonna fucking murder this guy someday. “How do you know it’s a gate.”

“I don’t. I’m guessing.”

Raising his stare to the aberrant heavens, Harry wondered why the hell he got saddled with _the _**_most_** pigheaded man in the world. He’d have an easier time as a dentist pulling teeth from a tiger’s mouth than getting the simplest information out of him. “James.. okay. Let’s try this again.” The veteran turned to the soldier. James looked none too happy with the way he was being treated like an idiot, but Harry saw the shoe fit.

“In the hole.”

A beat waited until James took the hint and answered, “Yeah.”

“There’s a gate.”

“Might be. I don’t know if it’s a gate.”

“What makes you think it’s a gate.”

“I don’t _know_ if it’s a gate,” he clipped. “There’s a grate floor down in the hole. It’s hard to see. You weren’t close enough to look, but I was.” Harry took a breath; James cut him off. “It looks like a metal floor. I’m just _guessing_ that it goes across the whole thing, and I’m just _guessing_ it’s a gate because there are valves here, and they have to open _something.”_

The men had a peevish stare-off. One hadn’t gotten the answers he actually wanted, and the other was resentful of being talked down to. Harry brusquely ended the squabble, turning back to the valves before they started plucking ruffled feathers.

He put the pipe on the floor and took hold of the left wheel. It wouldn’t turn. Trying the middle, he got it to turn a quarter - then stuck. The third budged so easily that he was taken by surprise, pitching forward and knocking his chin on the hard rim. James expertly withheld his smirk while Harry grimaced and clamped his jaw, then took out the frustration on completing the round.

After one full cycle, the valve stuck again. Harry gambled the roulette all over, growing increasingly embittered to find that the pattern he needed wasn’t being found. At one point they thought he’d made some progress by the sound of metal grating on something somewhere, yet he couldn’t replicate it. This puzzle was not helping Harry’s soured attitude.

Not to mention, his arms were getting pretty tired. Harry gripped the middle wheel, cocking his hip and slumping into the valve. He stared ahead, unfocused, past the laced, grody wall into the maze of others just like it. Their affair at Midwich was really starting to shake the curdling bottle of every goddamn piece of himself that’d been obsessively carved off along the way. Funnily enough, to put a humorous spin on his situation, he’d now begun to relate too hard with Lucille Ball fucking up at the chocolate factory conveyer belt.

The wayward father was wearing down, slowing down, and destitute as he took a swan dive into a pit of his own with no secret net.

He dropped his forehead to his knuckles. Ever since they arrived at the elementary school he felt that everything was emotionally bleeding himself dry more and more. It started with a pin prick - nothing more than what one gets on the fingertip at the doctor’s for a quick blood test. Then it’d steadily crawled up his hand and teased an artery and before he knew it, he was gonna need to swallow a month’s worth of iron pills in one go just to feel hair better.

His bed, drawn blackout curtains, and darkened lightbulbs were calling for him from home. All he wanted to do was to crawl under the blankets and say ‘adios’ to the conscious world for a day.

Or more.

Fans hummed, boilers rumbled, metal and blood stank the air. Harry was nowhere close to home (and no clicking his heels three times would get him there). A big breath didn’t unclog the heaviness from his hollow head - not that he thought it would, though it was always nice to try. He got his weight off his hip before it started giving him trouble and stared down at his thick, aged hands dirtied by ash and curled around the wheel.

_Heather was in danger._ Harry sluggishly stepped to the left in an imminent, foggy haze. _Heather is in danger,_ echoed the fatigued, yet stalwart reminder that strived to halt his disconnecting psyche as he took the wheel in his hands. _Heather is in danger and you’re going to find her and take her home just like you did before._

He tried to spin the valve left. It loosened and brought with it the hair-raising grind of metal against metal.

Harry looked over his shoulder. James was leaning over the edge, shining his flashlight in. He eyeballed his guardian. That man made him so goddamn nervous. “See anything?” he called.

The delay was a short one. “It seems to have moved a little.”

“How can you tell?”

The shotgun served as a pointer. “Sides are crumbling.”

“Great. Keep an eye on it.” Harry faced the wheels. He had no idea how James could see anything that far down. To his credit, of course, Harry didn’t have much of a look himself, at the time. James was fearless in general, and certainly had no qualms about essentially hanging over the side of a cliff like that.

More progress was made in the second round. Perhaps Harry needed the break, as mentally taxing and not-very-calming as recuperating ought to be. Ear-splitting friction and crunching became a frequent noise as Harry (sort of) discovered the pattern until all three wheels came to a halt.

Huffing, cranky, and sore, Harry gave them a reproachful frown and looked at the man in green. “Well? How’re we doing?”

“Pretty close,” he replied over his shoulder. “It’s almost there.”

Stretching and shaking out his arms, the survivor joined the other at the ledge and warily looked in with him. So it was a gate, after all - hard to see as it was. A long, wide band of metal bordered the latticed rust that accurately suggested that it had parted with a twin on the other side. James’s guesswork actually had merit.

“Well, I got bad news for you, bud: the valves won’t turn anymore. That might be all we get.”

The resident hummed. “Doesn’t seem right.”

“Even so.”

James curtly reprised it. His lips parted as though to say something, but closed. Harry stood straight and directed the beam to the outcast wheel. He left James behind to go test it out.

It had some give. He was able to wiggle it, but nothing more. Sighing, Harry crossed back to the trio to attempt one more shot.

Perhaps he’d forgotten to try rotating the other wheels to their opposite. The middle, after putting his back into it, allowed him a quarter turn. A tremendous thunder shook the room as the gate fully retracted into the concrete. Harry swiveled in place, immediately bracing himself against the sharp onset of a violent earthquake. James backed up, arms pinwheeling for balance, and quickly dashed, swerving and stumbling on shuddering ground, to Harry.

Harry snagged James by the sleeve to stabilize him back on the wheels. Briefly using him as an anchor, he snatched his weapon from the floor and dug his spine into the valves. He clung to James’s jacket, both men awestruck as a gigantic, moldering beast sprung from the crater. It spread its massive wings and hovered in the twilight.

Harry had met it before. The moth he thought he’d slain was resurrected - and it had not aged well. It was splotched in gangrene, its antennae snapped, one dangling by a wish. Maggots (or grubs, by the massive size of them) wormed in decayed, splitting gashes, sliding around in oily black goo that dribbled down the abdomen.

Those grubs were crammed tight in there, bulging the segments and squirming on each other like an agitated crowd at an arena. Tattered wings kept it impossibly afloat (for it should not be able to do so with such defects), dislodging many of its congested parasites that then rained like hail into the chasm below.

Its legs hung worthless, serving only as an avenue for drooling ichor to be slung about as a result of encumbered bobbing. The insect let out an undead, stuttering, terrorizing shriek. More inhabitants were jostled out in clumps, but instantly sprouted again and again from a deep, infinite supply that apparently acted as stuffing to a skin that would otherwise wilt.

The tremors subsided. The survivors’ board was set; their duty, assigned. This would be the pair’s first big rodeo together where they were undoubtedly outmatched, and Harry had all of just one thing to say about it:

“Aw, shit.”


	39. Aw, I Hate Dodgeball

“James, get the gun.”

James all but threw the backpack to the floor and dropped to a knee. He tore through their cache, clumsily shoving handfuls of shells into his pocket. When he uncovered the handgun, he gave it a once-over to make sure it was intact before he passed it to Harry’s waiting hand. As soon as he’d tucked the piece against his side, Harry accepted the two magazines, and stuffed them in his jacket. 

Harry licked the corner of his mouth, darting his eyes over the moth in quick study. “Remember the moth I fought on the roof?”

James stood; the shotgun clacked. “It looks like shit. You didn’t say it looked like this.”

“Because it didn’t.”

“You’re really gonna use that thing?” he questioned, jerking a nod at the pipe. 

“Always be prepar— oh shit, ** _MOVE!” _ **

They dove to either side and cleanly escaped the grub projectile. It ricocheted off the wheels where they’d split, bounced thrice across the floor, and disappeared into the deep. The two spread out as James blew the first shot. Pitched chittering from the moth sounded more annoyed than hurt, and hurled at him another fat, oversized maggot. James darted, cocked, and aimed. 

The moth descended from its airborne throne, its wings thrusting bouts of wind that disrupted James’s stability and aim. Ducking his head and twisting away, he quickly fled to the far corner and the single valve it housed. Being tucked in there diluted the wind enough for him to take back some control. He pivoted and almost got to shoulder the stock when he was forced to leap to the right, or else be squashed.

But in the hurry to save his hide, James briefly hooked himself on the nearby wheel. Though he freed himself in no time, the blunder put him in a downright surly mood. Glaring back at the beast, he sucked in an agitated breath, locked onto his target, and fired. Its cry preceded another slimy present for James of which herded him back to the corner. Hatefully firing round after round, the buckshot had already failed to keep the insect’s interest, and left James muttering and cursing to shift to a far more important man.

It was Harry’s turn. The moth propelled itself backwards, rotated, and swooped in. Harry condescendingly beckoned it in. When it was so close that the gales made him squint, his jacket billow, and tested his balance, Harry lunged for the body. The power behind his steel bat’s swing would’ve made a professional baseball player shed a tear. Thin gangrene ruptured upon the delivery, and prevented a peeking worm back into the crowd. 

Rhythmic gusts upset his equilibrium and Harry went bumbling backwards towards his own corner of the room. Somehow working against time and gravity, he managed to throw his arm up to protect himself and sharply turn, all whilst tripping over his feet. During those mere seconds in which this took place, the winds carried black spray from the torn wound and strings of ooze from its dead, flopping legs.

The mist sprinkled the leather and the ichor splattered his arm and back like spilt soup. Harry yelped the instant they made contact. Hot venom bloomed over his arm, shoulder, wherever he’d shown his back. Glancing showed no damage to the jacket itself and yet, the burn felt like an agonizing veneer on his bare skin. 

But he wasn’t going to let a little pain scare him. Snarling over clenched teeth, he kept his spine to the current as the creature’s wings hinged back, and used the short, breezeless window to whirl around. A bulging, squirming family of larvae crunched beneath the bludgeon’s impact, and for a moment, made his stomach turn.

The polluted moth dedicated its fury to the man it’d fought long ago. Harry stood his ground in the squall, half-listening to the shotgun’s steady pow-pow-pow at his left. 

Meanwhile, James discovered that no matter how many shells he unloaded, they seemed to be doing nothing. All his buckshot appeared to do was tickle the body and help dislodge a trio of grubs the color of mucus near Harry’s feet. 

Harry ignored them at first; he had bigger fish to fry. The insect’s segments contracted, and movement in his peripheral vision caught sight of James diving out of the path of an organic cannonball. But in going to repeat his attack, he realized he’d been foolish to overlook the bugs on the ground, and Harry found this out the hard way. One of the engorged, milky bodies uncurled during his distraction. It started a journey over his boot, rubbing up on his shin, and doting upon Harry a fun-filled surprise. 

He abandoned his swing midway to choke on his gasp. But Lady Luck had always been a good friend of his and saw to it that he, in his haste to pedal backwards from both moth and grub, stayed on his feet. He did, though, let the strong wings whisk his body into the wall where he hooked his fingers in the lattice above his head, and held fast.

As for the cheeky surprise, Harry quickly became aware that doing anything on his feet was going to be a big problem. The slime that’d smeared his boot and shin left a colony of blisters, so it seemed, overpopulating his foot in a flash. Every scrape and full-on step he took popped them raw and sticky - only for others to balloon in their place. It was _ hell. _

The ongoing blasts from James finally aggravated the moth enough to switch targets. No matter how many times James shot it, and no matter how fragile the moth’s segments looked, the scales acted like tough leather layered two feet thick. Despite that, oversized maggots effortlessly birthed themselves from septic lesions, its sloppily oozing legs flopped about, and the gales blew.

Click-clack, boom; wet crunches, angry shrieks; click-clack, boom. A bug he’d wounded served return fire. There were several dense bodies curled up dead on his side of the room, and the new arrival added one more. James periodically glanced at Harry favoring one leg and writhing on the fence. He tried to keep their enemy busy while also conserving his ammo, but without Harry’s help, their chance of survival was becoming grim. 

Harry ground his teeth, persevering through the agony to locate the grubs around him. Whether it was his full weight on his leg or just a scuff, it felt no less painful than stepping on a bed of glass and coals. Nevertheless, the opportunity arose to practice his golf swing, and he could use the distraction. Any bugs scooting towards him went sailing through the air into the largest, and easiest, 18th hole they’d ever see. 

When he was done with those, he was given more to practice with. The moth entertained resident and civilian on their sides of the room as though it were a pitching machine in a batting cage. On their left, James spruced up his dodgeball skills and on their right, Harry called himself Arnold Palmer. If they weren’t in such increasingly deep shit trouble, maybe they would’ve found a little humor in it somewhere.

That being said, Harry was a rather bullheaded man, himself. His stubborn insistence to take his fight up close and personal was about to teach him a stern lesson in keeping one’s distance - even if backs were turned. Not unlike a natural idiot, Harry moved in, held his pipe aloft like a two-handed spear, and plunged it into one of the many gooey sores riddling the moth’s body. 

Three things happened then: 

One, Harry’s pipe shoveled beneath the mushier scales and volleyed the stuffing balls out; 

Two, scooping the weapon out as quickly as he thrust it did mean that spray and spill was inevitable. He’d done some quick strategic thinking in preparation for that, and had deliberately chosen to gouge from an upwards angle. Doing so allowed him to stay behind the mess that burst out.;

And three, he also put himself in the stupid position of being too close to the hindwing. 

Harry’s body flew into the iron wall. Wing, wind, and a solid beach ball were all in cahoots in how far, and how hard he fell. The larvae ejected partway through his time as Superman, bouncing off his right side and forcing Harry’s collision onto his left. His steel rod went twirling in the air, clanging off the rim of a wheel valve, then see-sawed into the wall where it remained at the base of the fence, and far from his reach. 

He landed on his stomach. Air whooshed from his lungs and sandpaper shaved them with his next gasp. Harry lay stunned on the concrete, his breaths coming tight and clipped. James witnessed the moment Harry dropped like a sack of sand, and his heart shot up into his throat. 

Harry wasn’t moving, but his face said he was alive and beyond well. James was suddenly alone in a battle that needed two to win, but the way his companion was dazed and prone - paralyzed, even - insinuated that it was more serious than it looked. That angered him for several reasons he didn’t have a spit’s second to even name. Shells were loaded by muscle memory, for James’s anger blended with anxiety when it was taking too long for Harry to move.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, pointing the barrel where the wings overlapped. His sniper’s accuracy hit the bullseye, drawing from the moth a soprano’s shrill, and ducked for the ground a little too late.

The nasty cannonball grazed his shoulder, sprung off the wall, bounced into his straightened calves and rolled off his heels. James’s knees bowed from the impact, and in the two steps forward, a cigar had been apparently snuffed out on his shoulder, and what felt like a cast of molten wax instantly throttled his lower legs. Pain locked his breath in his lungs. He danced an encumbered waltz, strafing and swaying through a minefield of grubs.

James gnashed his teeth; his knees wobbled, his calves swelling taut around bones just waiting to splinter. By pure chance, James’s teetering saved him from a projectile to the stomach, and instead led him to the grate. 

Clinging to the iron tense, panicked, and boiling with hate, James looked at the bug inching his way and pushed off hard. Here, he made a simple, logical choice (which was a great mistake) to kick it. By his demand, the grub dutifully exited the scene; but, it would be impolite to do so without a parting gift. So away it went, rolling easily through the gust (since it was too heavy to be affected by it) and dropped off the cliff - and in its wake, James was left with a bounty of suffering.

Perfect timing came from the other side. James staggered in the swells to the sound of popping bullets’ uneven tempo. Naturally, the moth redirected. He was so disoriented that he’d forgotten how many more living bugs were in his company. Scanning the ground, there were a lot more worms than he remembered. The majority of them were already dead, confusing his perception, but he found a nearby couple slinking in for an unwelcome meet and greet. Like Harry’d done with his steel, James made an impromptu club out of the shotgun’s barrel, and aggressively rejected their salutations into the trench.

A third, unfortunately, wanted to surprise him - and surprise him, it did. James accidentally stepped, and tripped, over the one waiting at his heels. Like an old slapstick routine, his arms and legs flailed about and, as though the backpack were a magnet, slammed again into the wall. Clenching his jaw to the point where his teeth wanted to crack, he endured the raging onset of serrated barnacles replacing his shoes, and the icepicks that rammed through his bones.

James scrunched his face so tightly that his eyeballs strained. The pain throbbed in his legs like a battering ram, gradually edging itself higher and higher. He swallowed a billiard ball of spit, recollecting his priorities and focus on the man he was supposed to be protecting. Popping his eyes open, he blearily looked around to try to figure out a way to swing this shitshow in their favor.

But that goddamn grub that’d tripped him snuck into his peripheral vision. It made him so _ angry _ that it stoked the bonfire borne from the lava in his legs and frustrations that never ended. James wiped his forehead, sweating like a roast pig, and took care of the bug with as little care as possible.

This whole event took place in mere minutes - but to father and soldier, it could've been decades. Although James couldn’t see how bad Harry was doing on the other side of the room, he knew they needed to hustle along. He darted his eyes about, and did a double take when they glimpsed the concrete trail between cliffside and rust - they’d crossed one just like it before from the opposite side of the room. That was their ticket out. 

The resident supported himself on the wall and cocked his gun. One buckshot shell whizzed through the moth’s delicate wingspan; a follow-up sheared the broken antennae from its head. Screeches awarded him blood audibly pulsing in his eardrums and dull hammering in his skull. But crucial symmetry had been stolen from the beast, and it became a fisherman’s bauble on rippling waters as it swam backwards over the dark.

James pounced on the chance.

** _“HARRY!”_ ** he barked over the shrieks. Harry was fully visible to him at last and when he looked up, James was reminded how fear could cut a man’s guts to shreds. God on high - he looked like death itself was making a perverted joke out of his suffering. James could relate to that all too well. He jabbed his finger to his left, indicating where they’d come in. 

** _“I’m gonna take it that way!”_ ** They were too far apart and the warbling too loud for Harry to hear a full sentence. His brow furrowed low and he darted his eyes at their enemy in flight, then to James. 

Exasperation over Harry’s pinched, confused face didn’t live long under the barrage of fire hollowing James’s bones. James refused to waste any more energy on yelling, shook his finger again, and prayed Harry would get the point. To his relief, his expression told him he understood.

So James became easy bait to a monster seeking vengeance. 

The moth ascended high and tracked the escapee. James may have impaired its gait, so suspension required more care now, but the unfair advantage in size and flight counteracted its shortcomings. It performed each beat with intent, generating downwind that was meant to thrust James into the chasm. His journey traversing the length of the room was already set to be slow, and the grueling cocktail of pain, wind, and fear of falling would delay the trip longer than anticipated.

Pops continued to sound off, but even though the ginormous monster slugged along, Harry was still too much of a rookie to handle shooting straight under intense pressure (and pain). He should’ve been able to fill the beast with far more bullets; however, his shaking arms neglected to make a worthwhile impact.

It was _ embarrassing. _

Harry aimed for the thorax and got nothing out of it. The trigger abruptly lost its tension and clicked and clicked and clicked; his supply was clean out. He fumbled to unload the empty magazine through memories muddled by pain and lack of consistent practice. His whole right side and back felt like they were being eaten by a swarm of horseflies, and the jabs of a blacksmith’s red hot poker riddling his arms made it seem like the only reason why it was still attached to his shoulder was by the sympathy of deteriorating muscle. 

Harry had just snapped the magazine in and pulled the slide when an insistent crash on the grate wall at his left nearly startled him out of his skin.

It was_ her. _ Harry’s dumbstruck stare followed her dash to a horizontal valve wheel on her side of the fence. She gripped and wiggled it, her faceless head snapping down at the wheel, to Harry, and to the singular valve station nearby. When he didn’t clue in, she slammed on the wheel again, struck her fist on the wall, then pointed demandingly at the lonely valve the travelers hadn’t understood.

Harry glanced back at the ongoing chase. James _ needed _ his help. Every second lost was one more second to failure. But the girl was relentless, and his gut told him to heed her, so he turned heel and raced to the valve.

He flipped his jacket out of the way to tuck the gun against his left side. Harry took the wheel, tried to turn right, and again, was interrupted. Looking impatiently at her, she shook her head and in the air, exaggerated twisting a wide, invisible wheel to the left. Her hands clamped down again. Harry spun left first; she spun to the opposite right after. 

Then she halted him and bounced on her arms, counting one, two, three - and together they cranked. The wall separating them squawked and twitched the floor as it began to lift. Harry was shocked. He hadn’t noticed that the fence had been portioned into sections, not that it mattered now. As soon as there was enough space, the unholy girl speedily wriggled through the slat, mounted the stationary iron wall, and skittered at lightning speed for the other side.

The din had attracted their enemy. Harry stole his gun from his belt and a couple victorious shots later _ (finally!) _, he was crossing the bridge. He dropped the firearm to his side and pawed at the wall to help safely pull himself along. Of course, she beat him to the punch light years ahead and, like a squirrel, launched herself off the rust straight for James. Their bodies surged into the four barrel drums in the corner, causing an airborne grub to miss James entirely, and for him to waste a precious shell.

From there, she snapped a glance over her shoulder, made sure another wasn’t coming, then hopped off the stricken conduit half laying on the ground. Picking up the bug uncurled beside them, she raised it high and hurdled it back. Her aim and brawn was so true that she caused the moth to teeter and briefly dip into the cavern. 

By that time, Harry had reached the party. He took the opening and fired for the wings, which he missed, but the bullets weren’t misused. They penetrated and felled the front line of the parasites in their host’s septic holes. The maggots behind the wounded began to shove those out to make room for themselves. In their haste, they effectively lost not only the useless, but a few of their healthy own, and all went plummeting into the nothingness below.

The girl scurried past Harry and took post in front of the pile of barrel drums and the fallen resident as the role of protector. Harry reached for James’s wrist with a tremulous hand, then upon contact, winced hard to his companion’s yowl of pain. James instinctively tried to retract, but Harry just reinforced his grip. 

Deflecting the grubs seemed like child’s play to her; however, the endless pelting they’d gotten used to seemed to be slowing down which, of course, made her job easier. Instead, and quite worryingly, the moth appeared to be preserving its munitions. By the way it hovered and strafed, it had, perhaps, even begun to carefully calculate its next attack.

That was a case confirmed when the organic pellet struck her with such precision that she went somersaulting backwards like a bowling ball. A fallen barrel stopped her with a sickening crack; but James’s legs were draped over that very same barrel. As a result, the collision folded his body in extreme agony into the barrels supporting his back, worsening every little move he made to the point that he could only croak. James tore his hand from Harry’s fingers, as panicked as a rat caged in a trap. 

Harry’s legs quivered from the precarious effort of keeping upright whilst leaning over to try to snatch James’s wild arm. ** _“James!”_ ** he fretfully barked. “James, stop! ** _Stop!_ ** Let me help you!” Though his own arm still threatened to dismember itself from his shoulder, he grappled with James to latch onto and restrain the conduit’s wrist in spite of his sweat-slicked palm doing them no favors. When James finally held on to Harry’s wrist, they battled their respective tortures for security in one another to win the unwieldy fight for his freedom. 

In the interim, the girl scrambled to her hands and knees. Harry glanced over, and watched her try to find a good grip on the rim of the steel drum imprisoning James in the heap. Her mammoth strength was paradoxical to her twiggy body, but it was what ripped the cylindrical container out from under his legs, and allowed James to get to his feet. 

Harry caught James’s tottering body with his own. The crouched anomaly suddenly leapt and twisted in the air with catlike grace, and booted an airborne projectile from its mark. She landed facing them, her sickly body tense and horrifyingly wounded. Nevertheless, she seemed unfazed, pointed frantically at the full, heavy barrel she’d extracted, then at the guns they held. 

Though practically hanging onto consciousness by a thread, James caught on in an instant. He pushed off Harry and, stepping behind the awaiting receptacle, gave it a swift kick of his heel and sent it peeling for the trench - and the moth. That’s when it clicked for Harry too, but James was the straight shooter here; the resident had braced the stock on his shoulder at once. They were fortunate that the moth had restarted the descent at the right time, swooping in to be met by the drum exploding into flame. 

The moth reeled back. Grubs flew everywhere like rotten, blazing candy from a piñata. Ducking to shelter themselves against the fiery hail didn’t stop them from forcing their overworked bodies to situate another drum. Blinded by sweat and fever, the two men endured how the raucous bleating pounded their heads, and got ready for round two. 

James punted the barrel, but his weakness and their poor positioning arched its path instead of rolling head-on as it should’ve. His face pinched, trying to see and blink through the salt dripping down his face to find the would-be bomb.

Two shells went wasted. James’s shotgun quaked no better than a fall leaf, robbing him of his priceless marksmanship at the undeniably worst time. The drum toppled right off the cliff, unharmed, into the bottomless nothing. 

The moth’s own wings fed its cluster of flames, nulling its previous hope for strategy. It discharged bugs as angrily as a toddler throwing a tantrum, no longer having the luxury of biding its time. They all had played enough games. Harry and James had filled their score board long ago, and were earmarked for immediate death. 

Causticity devoured the air and those who breathed it. It partnered with the smoke to suck oxygen from the atmosphere, whittling their vigor and drying up their lungs to pitiful sacs.

Their wretched protector also believed that enough was enough. Stalwart yet desperate to keep these two important souls alive, she reared up on her knees, threw her arms out to her sides, and displayed her melting belly to the moth. Her hands were virtually bone, her heels protruding through shredded skin, and she fearlessly challenged their enemy to do any better than that.

This girl had moxie by the truckload. She expertly caught a grub rocketing ablaze straight for them and launched it back, not much caring whether or not the moth took damage. Grubs alive and dead littered the floor, and she took to clearing those within their immediate area, all of which were promptly returned to the flying behemoth. 

Concurrently, the men’s sufferings were winning out. Manhandling the barrels was as simple as moving boulders. Harry was stepping to place alongside James to assist dispatching the third drum when James’s knees finally gave out. Taken aback and instantly demoralized, the author bent over James and tried his best to pull his crumpled guardian back up. 

“James, c’mon buddy,” Harry dismally pled. “We can do this, c’mon up..!” Stupidly putting down the firearm, he angrily nudged the damn drum from them (where it rolled to a place where it’d’ve made perfect dynamite, yet it was gone, gone away), latched onto his military jacket, and tried in vain to even sit him up proper - but James was a dead weight. He knew James was, thankfully, alive, for his eyes fluttered and fixed Harry with a look haggard, guilty, and apologetic. 

“James, _ please _ , I know it hurts, I know, but we’re so close, we’re so **fucking** close--”

All of a sudden, a white hot brand sank into Harry’s thigh and volleyed its heat to his chest. He shot straight up; James dropped to the floor. His spine arched hard, pulled as rigid as a tree, the muscles in his back tight as marble, and his throat blockading his air behind his tongue. 

Harry fought for breath while the girl snatched the maggot by his feet and threw it - then accosted his burning thigh. Screeching his vocal chords rough, he lurched from her hands and wobbled into the standing, leftover oil drum. He shook like a woodpecker’s neck, hitching his breaths, and shot a scathing glare back at the girl. 

She pointed at the boiler and took off. Harry not only shoved off the barrel, but heaved it to the side, banished it to the quarry with a kick, and started after her; then remembered his gun. He quickly backtracked and snatched it up. Thanks to the pain hunching his posture, he passed unharmed under a ball of fire whizzing overhead. 

Snapping a glance back at James, he found their nemesis lingering too near his body. Harry opened fire on it with the goal in mind to both piss it off and keep its eyes on the prize he and the girl made. It worked.

But successfully diverting the moth from James also drained his ammo for the second time. 

Harry braced on the vessel, his desert-dry lungs rattling his chest while he discarded the empty magazine and smacked the last one he had into place. The girl got Harry’s attention from her perch behind his head, and when he twisted to look up at her, he was literally faced by how she was truly the worst off of them all. 

Her once-leathery skin slid in greasy clumps from her limbs before his eyes, plopping, and sizzling, on boiler’s surface. Gruesome clots of meat, or intestine, or something else entirely, could be seen through moist, flimsy webbing on her concave gut. Her body threatened to disembowel itself and shed its skin at any given moment - a nightmarish sight that would revisit Harry for years whenever he closed his eyes to rest.

His lips parted, staring at the featureless face that seemed to harden to his gawking. But Harry cycled through awe and despair for the puny, spindly little thing that was inexplicably giving her life for him and James. They meant something equivocal to her; and at that moment, he knew they’d make it out alive.

They’d be forever indebted to her.

She thrust her finger, naught but black and splintering bone, at his firearm. By now, a pattern had been blatantly established, and Harry understood her demands without hesitation. He nodded, and darted his eyes to the fervid moth centered on them. 

This was a dangerous game to play in such a tight corner. Everything could go very wrong at the drop of a hat. Harry had a titanic will to live, and that resurging determination circumvented the agony coursing through his body like a storm in the Bermuda Triangle. The wait for the moth to close in seemed to match a millennia, then in the blink of an eye, it was at their door. 

The moth had every right to assume it’d trapped them in that corner like a cat to mice. Their compact space got smaller when it drew so near that its heat and smoke whirled Harry’s head faint. He was beginning to doubt their little plan. Ever yet, his peripheral vision glimpsed her petite figure begin the vault over his head and safe landing on the other side. But Harry was _ not _ petite in any sense of the word, and the tempestuous fires on disintegrating, insistent wings had him doubting her faith in him. 

But if he thought about it too long, which was a dangerous pitfall of his, he’d never get out. Gathering some conviction in himself, Harry lunged sideways through his last chance to escape. The narrow gap between fire and wall afterwards shut for good.

The wind pumped on his back and sent him stumbling hard on feet begging for mercy. He scraped along the wall, ensuring enough support to let him pivot, and retreat further away, then farther yet to the other side of the room where James lay prone. Squinting through the sweat pouring down his face, he clasped the handgun in his two hands, and leveled it dead ahead. 

Its forthcoming death didn’t dissuade the moth from expending all its might on ridding the world of Harry Mason for good. It swung to face him and, quite pathetically, spat the corpse of a larvae, charred and embering, onto the floor. That lull, that useless effort to take him down, was its final mistake.

Harry took a deep breath, locked his arms, and bled the tank.

The boiler detonated and engulfed that corner in inferno. Harry was thrown off his feet by the force of the explosion to skid along the ground on his side, whisking the gun from his hand. It flew, spinning through the air, and went missing in the great big hole in the middle. Corroded, piercing caterwauls gouged a pin into Harry’s eardrum, sharply popping it, and deafened the Otherworld’s outbreak of hues and cries. 

Vertigo spun him on a malfunctioning carousel, but he struggled to his hands and knees, looking up for James. Harry powered through a body broken and running on fumes, got up, and blundered over swaying ground to the conduit. 

With his back to the raging chaos, he dropped to his knees, hunching and gathering James up in his arms. He clutched his guardian tight to his chest, but Harry then started to succumb to exhaustion and keel forward - which he subconsciously realized could be used in his favor. Shifting his knees and fueled by adrenaline, Harry all but threw his body over James, shielding him as best he could in all entirety, and pushed his ruddy cheek on James’s pale to turn both their heads from the fires. 

The wayward father selflessly defended Silent Hill’s virulent, longtime resident under his large frame, and kept him safe just as a second blast erupted from that far corner. 

The ground trembled. Harry weathered the increasingly violent shakes and the outstanding heat penetrating his jacket and whooshing over his legs. His deafened ears numbed the cutting brays rising above the bedlam, and once the flurry subsided, he boldly peeked past his shoulder. 

Adjacent to the boiler, the industrial fan as massive as the dying beast swept it up in its currents. It careened into the jagged edge of the hole, emitted one final wail, then fell out of sight. 

Though the scene had been mostly obstructed by bunched, brown leather, a sea of relief drove Harry nearly to tears as he witnessed the gratifying sight of the moth’s disastrous, and well-deserved conclusion.

They had won, but not without a hefty price to pay - and it wasn’t over yet.


End file.
